Experience
by ObsessedRomantic
Summary: First in the new season 1 AU Townwood Estates. Ryan starts a new career to escape life in Chino. Starts about a year before the show, though.
1. One Door Closes

**EXPERIENCE **

**Disclaimer**: I still don't own anything to do with The O.C., although I would like to! Will return all once I'm done having my wicked (unprofitable) way with them, so please don't sue. 

**Summery:** Starting the Townwood Estates AU, being yet another way to start off season one. Major differences abound. – Ryan starts a new career to escape Chino. R and misc. females. 

**Warning:** Contains very adult themes, rated M for more than just language, people! 

**Inspiration**: A fantastic vid (if you can get it to load) from youtube by Renatamgm that can be found by searching 'Ryan Atwood making out the oc'. Totally worth the wait. 

_Kudos_ to Avecia, Angel4Patriots, bookjunkie, and Waltzy; all of whom are fantastic authors themselves, and all of whom pestered me until I agreed to start this story. 

-- xxx --- 

I wasn't having a very good night, appearances to the contrary. 

First off, I was a fifteen year old in a biker bar. The only way **that** scenario could possibly be any worse was if I was a fifteen year old **girl**. I didn't think the bartender was really worried about being busted serving beers to a minor (especially since I'd only had two since I walked in). No, the age thing was only a downside because of the **other** two situations. 

Second being that I was beating the pants off all comers at the corner pool table. I wasn't even trying to hustle; everyone just wanted a piece of the 'punk' who 'thought he could play'. Well, I **could** play, and had proved it the very sweet tune of (currently) six hundred dollars. Ryan was **not** sleeping at the fucking flophouse tonight. No, Ryan was gonna have him some goddamn sheets (that didn't smell like bleached vomit) and actual **pillows** instead of a folded jacket (because the 'pillows' smelled worse than the sheets). Yes sir, I was Best Western bound; and not even a bar full of bikers was gonna stop me. Okay, they probably **could**, but I was gonna make them fight for it; because I was **real** damn tired of sleeping at the Shit James (more politely known as the Saint James). 

But the absolute worst part of the night was the Atwood unlucky third. 

The girls were hitting on me. 

Oh, they always did; wherever I **went** they did, and I was usually fine with it. With a 'when did my life become a porn movie and how can I get it to stay that way' kind of attitude. Not to mention it gave me a place to crash for the night, most times; as I usually got up early enough to avoid their boyfriends (or whatever). Of course, **usually**; their boyfriends (or whatever) weren't **already** pissed at me for taking their money and said boyfriends weren't **usually** three (in some cases four) times my fucking size. Throw in the biker aspect of it and it was shaping up to be the worst night of my short (and probably about to be shorter) life.

''Fuck!'' It wasn't the six ball flowing towards the corner pocket (or the eight ball following it like it was on rollers) that was pissing my current opponent off. Or at least, that wasn't **all** of it. ''You little shit!'' I straightened from my stance, which had the benefit of removing my groin from the interested fingers of my opponent's girlfriend. Not that I wasn't enjoying it, but I think the bald guy with the cobra tattoo all over his chest wasn't exactly thrilled that her attempt hadn't worked. 

It was a classic: send in a hot girl to press herself against the guy making the shot (or slide her hand between his legs) **just** as he's making the shot and bingo, he misses. Unless, like me; said guy knew how to control himself. Having it on with the girl's P.E. instructor at Chino Hills had taught me a lot; but the single most valuable lesson was how to control erections. One hard-on while wearing a cup and my lesson was **very** learned. I tipped back the last of my beer, already feeling those clean, crisp sheets. Which I guess was my second mistake of the evening. First, of course, being the choice of** this** particular bar to play in. 

There was a whistle, then it felt like someone spun a baseball bat into my stomach. I spit beer all over the table, dropping the bottle and my cue as I staggered back; a harsh line of fire across my ribs. I knew what had happened: baldy had moved when I stupidly took my eyes off him and swung the bottom half of his pool cue into my stomach. As I hunched over and tried to catch my breath, I saw him snag the pile of cash we'd been playing for off the side of the table. Red colored my vision and I snarled, suddenly not feeling any pain at all. 

That was **my** money: my 'sleeping in a real bed for the rest of summer' and 'eating regular for the next six months' money. Not all of it was baldy's either; only about one fifty was actually his part of the pot. I shouted wordlessly in my rage and tackled the guy around the middle, intending to knock him to the floor and proceed with my instruction on 'fair play'. My third and most potentially fatal move of the night; because it didn't even rock him back. He put a hand on my head, prepatory to pushing me mockingly back. He probably would've been satisfied with that move and had his buddies toss me outside ……..if one of the punches I was peppering him with hadn't caught him right in the nuts. 

I had one horrified second to realized what I'd done (and maybe gloat a little as baldy cradled his joint) before the guy's friends grabbed me. They seemed to take it very personally; Baldy must be popular, probably their dope connection or something. Just as they were hauling me out to the alley (at the bartender's insistence); I saw the strangest thing. In the door of the bar was a guy who didn't belong anywhere in Chino but, as soon as I noticed him, he left; leaving me wondering if I'd even seen him. A clean-shaven, dark haired guy with brown eyes who looked about twenty wearing a nice suit, sans tie. What the hell would someone like that be doing in Chino, anyway? I was probably just hallucinating in my growing panic.

Cool air hit my face and I remembered I had bigger problems than some college prep boy who might not have even **been** there. They tossed me to the pavement and I tried to scramble to my feet to make a run for it as quickly as possible. Not quick enough, though; not** near** quick enough. The group caught me, hauled me up by my jacket, and started pushing me back and forth between them, throwing in a punch or a slap for variety (as the mood struck them). I couldn't brace myself, given the random nature of their 'fun'; and I certainly couldn't break through a circle when everything was blurring together. I tried to fight back as best I could: just too damn stubborn to know when to quit, I guess. The odds finally caught up with me and I stumbled (or was tripped) and inhaled the stale smell of pavement that had served as a toilet far too often for me to be resting my face on it. . 

That's when the kicking started. 

''Fire!'' No, I thought to myself. Not a fire, despite the hot points all over my back and limbs (curling into a ball, always a good move when losing a fight) where my playmates had left their marks. ''Hey, the bikes are on fire!" It was amazing how boring beating the shit out of a kid became when their precious rides were in danger. Perfect opportunity to make a break for it, though; and I called down blessings on whomever's tossed cig had ignited the blaze. Uncurling felt like being kicked around all over again, and my arms shook as I tried to push myself up. C'mon, Ry; they'll be back any minute.

''Kid?'' My head jerked up, the gentle hand on my shoulder barely registering in my shock at the concern in the stranger's voice. What the fuck did **he** care? Who** was** this guy? Vision blurry, I blinked a few times; but the image remained the same. It was the college prep guy from that split second look, in the bar. Guess he was real, then. He must be lost, I thought; this wasn't the kind of situation one walks **into,** after all. Not if your name wasn't Atwood, anyway. ''Come on, kid; they'll be back soon.'' 

What do you know? College boy had some actual smarts. There was a faint smell of gasoline and smoke hanging around him as he practically dragged me upright. I had a sudden, sneaking suspicion I knew how the fire had started. I staggered down the alley with the preppy guy helping me along, almost dragging me when I stumbled. There was a car in the dim light behind the bar, he shoved me towards the passenger door, scrambling around to the driver's side. He must be in a hurry or something, I thought distractedly; too busy concentrating on getting the door open so I could fall into the comfortable-looking seat. Shouts from the alley behind me gave me a needed surge of adrenaline; the door popped open and the stranger gunned the engine just as I was scrambling inside. I closed the door on the sound of the Lexus peeling out. 

''Anything broken?'' The guy didn't sound like he was flooring it, didn't **sound** like he was driving like a maniac. And after two or three blocks, he wasn't; he merged with what little traffic there was as calmly as if he didn't expect a horde of bikers to come roaring after us. The constant little checks to the rear view, though, clued me in on how worried he was. He seemed a little concerned for **me**, too; which was really throwing me. He wasn't at** all** familiar, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out why he had hauled my ass out of there. ''Can you breathe? Vision okay?'' 

''Yeah.'' I grunted, gingerly checking to see if I actually **could** breathe, shifting around in my seat with a little hiss as my sore (thankfully not broken) ribs protested. There weren't any spots in front of my eyes, and the streetlights weren't making my head pound; so combine those with an absence of nausea, and a concussion wasn't likely. He was pulling into the parking lot of a convenience store that I would bet heavy had a well-armed cashier before I got up the nerve to ask. ''Why?'' Smart guy, he knew right away what I was asking.

''It's a little hard to shave if you can't stand to look in the mirror.'' He shrugged into my confusion, turning off the engine. ''I'm gonna grab some stuff, be right back.'' He pulled the keys out and then paused, shooting me this embarrassed look. 

''It's no fun if the keys're in the car.'' I quipped, looking away. 

The guy surprised me, yet again, by sticking the keys back in and turning the radio on for me. This night was turning out to be full of surprises, and most of them were walking into the Mini-Mart. I couldn't figure him out, couldn't nail down who he was; I could only say who (or rather, what) he **wasn't**. 

He wasn't gay. To start with, his clothes weren't flash enough. He also hadn't taken any of several opportunities to check me out or grope me. That's not conceit, I'd been approached on the matter often enough, believe me. His disinterest in me (sexually speaking) was a relief, as I severely doubted my ability to fight off a little old lady right now. He wasn't packing, which pointed to him** not** being connected, and was also a mark against him being a dealer of any kind. Even the pot planters carried some kind of heat; at least the ones in Chino did, if they were smart. His car was nice, but not pimped enough to make him a recruiter for the rent-boy stables, or a pimp himself. One of my recurring nightmares (of which there are several) was waking up having been shanghaied into service as a homosexual cum dumpster. I think it was so frequent because I knew I was approaching the level of desperation needed to go for the offers I'd been getting more and more frequently. 

Whatever he was, it wasn't anyone who had any faith in authority. Anyone else walking into the situation back at the bar would've called the cops, and that's if they would've gotten involved in the first place. **This** guy goes calmly out and sets fire to a bunch of bikers' precious hogs and **then** sticks around long enough to haul my sorry ass out of the alley. If my face looked anything like it felt, most people would've taken me straight to the hospital, or at least mentioned the possibility. My benefactor just made sure I wasn't seriously hurt (and how could he tell I had enough experience with personal injury to assess my own damage?) and promptly dropped the matter. Leaving the keys in the car after I pretty much confessed to being a car thief………yeah, he was a strange one, all right. 

''Here.'' He was back, holding out two bags for me to take so he could get in the car. Had I blacked out, or just been so lost in thought I'd missed his approach? Mechanically, I took the bags, smelling some kind of hot food in one. All other concerns faded as I got a good whiff. ''You look like a straight guy.'' He was holding out a cup of coffee with a little quirked grin as he belted into his seat. I tried not to snatch it from him, but I wasn't as controlled when I sucked at the blessed warmth, and ended up burning my mouth. ''There's aspirin in there, some Gatorade, a couple microwave burgers and some snack food.'' I started scrabbling into the bags, incurious as to the puzzle of him as my stomach reminded me how long it'd been since I'd eaten more than a bag of chips. If I hadn't already determined he wasn't any threat, I probably would've been out of there at the next stop light (taking the food **with** me of course). He sat through a shift to green, causing me to shoot him a curious look over the second burger I was wolfing down. ''Which way to the freeway?'' One of the puzzle pieces clicked into place and I pointed the direction, digging out the aspirin as I swallowed the last of the burger. **That** explained what college preppy here was doing at a biker bar; he was lost.

''You can drop me here.'' I pointed to an all night diner, feeling better with three burgers, two packs of Ding-Dongs, and package of cheese puffs inside me. The coffee and the Gatorade were probably contributing to my current feeling of awareness, I was gonna crash pretty hard when the caffeine wore off. The waitress at the diner here wasn't too bad about letting me sleep in the booth, provided they weren't too crowded. She'd even fork over some breakfast, once she got a look at my face. Maternal instinct was a wonderful thing, but I'd have to avoid coming back here for a while; she'd be all over me to 'get help' the minute I finished my free meal. ''It's safe.'' 

''That's one of your options.'' College guy commented, pulling obligingly into the diner parking lot. The freeway was easily visible from our new location, so I had no doubts about him finding his way wherever home was. ''Would you like to hear the others?'' The way he said it, like it was entirely up to me; that's what kept me in the car, made me nod my head with a surge of some emotion I couldn't identify. I'd been on my own (more or less) for six years now, but **this** was the first time anyone had implied I was capable of deciding anything for myself. It was nice. ''First option is you getting out here, and me wondering for the rest of my life if you're dead in a ditch somewhere.'' I frowned at him, curious once again as to why a total stranger gave a shit about someone like me. He just shrugged, continuing. ''Second is I drive you to a nice hotel and hand you a wad of cash, hoping no one stabs you tomorrow, or next week, or whenever the money runs out.'' I nodded absently, having been down **that** road before; with well-meaning people (mostly church goers) performing their 'charitable act' of the decade. Once they got their fix of having 'done good', they were gone. ''Third is I take you home and try and teach you how to fish, or at least give you a safer stomping ground.'' 

''Third.'' I knew some people would think I made the decision awfully fast; but there were several points in this guy's favor. I'd already figured him for someone walking the line of legality, and I had no fears about his intentions. He'd saved my life (without being melodramatic about it), fed me, made sure I wasn't gonna drop dead; and now he was offering me a way out of the mess my life had become. That teaching me to fish thing was a little confusing, but I figured 'what the hell', it couldn't hurt to let him make his pitch. He was right, too; wherever he was from was sure to be a safer environment than Chino. Prison was probably a safer environment than Chino, some days. 

''Okay then.'' Just like that, he drove the car back onto the road. No questions to see if I was 'really sure' or if I wanted to go 'home'. I hadn't had anywhere to call home since Arturo busted me sleeping with his sister eight months ago, anyway. Somehow, I don't think explaining that she'd come onto me (and hadn't been a virgin) would get me back into the guy's good graces, or those of their mother's. Word had it he was still looking for me, too; as well as some guy named Eddie that Theresa must've hooked up with after I left. That was why I'd been staying at the Shit James; all the girls I traded sex for a bed with were at places 'Turo could find me.. Yeah, getting out of Chino would be a good thing; probably extend my life by **months**. ''By the way, my name's Spencer Davis.'' 

''Ryan Atwood.'' I tried to settle myself more comfortably into the seat, buckling the belt as an afterthought. Now that I was headed towards his place, you'd think I'd be a little more concerned with trying to figure Spencer out; but all that was going through my mind were images of a hot shower and a nice, soft bed. 

Guess it was a good night, after all. 

-- xxx –

**A/N:** Sorry to all the folks who thought the stranger was Sandy. Please R&R!


	2. Another One Opens

**A/N: ** Okay, so here comes the dark stuff. I will point out to my inevitable critics that it's a sick world (Google the word 'sandbox' sometime if you don't believe me) so don't read if you don't like it, and **please** don't flame or sue, as this is just for fun. 

--xxx—

Coffee. 

I hadn't woken to the smell of coffee since Theresa's. I blinked myself awake, lifting my head from the pull-out sofa bed. Spencer was pulling stuff out of the fridge, obviously making breakfast. It had really happened, then. Some strange guy had saved my life and brought me (for some weird, non-gay reason) home with him. 

His apartment was a one-bedroom, but the pull-out bed in the sofa was amazingly comfortable. Beat the flophouse, any day; and had the added benefit of not costing me a dime. There was a TV, some bookshelves, assorted other furniture; mostly I'd just noted the shower and the couch-bed, in that order. He'd tossed me a pair of sweats and a shirt that pretty much bagged on me, saying that he wasn't having my 'disgusting' clothes foul up his sofa. I couldn't argue with him, it'd been a couple days since I'd been able to so much as rinse out my stuff, let alone wash them. Once again, I cursed the Atwood luck that had lead me to leave my bag at that girl's house (Denise? Danielle?) - **just **for it to get tagged as 'evidence' when the cops busted the meth lab in the basement - while I was out hustling for grocery money. Typical of the shit that happened to me on a pretty regular basis. Now that I was out of Chino, though……

I got up and shuffled my way into the bathroom for my morning 'business'. Splashing water on my face after, my head felt a lot clearer, thoughts less fuzzy. Spencer had been able to walk through a room while I was sleeping and I didn't so much as twitch. It was a big relief, to be honest; told me my gut trusted the guy, too. Sometimes, my gut told me something (not to sleep with Theresa, stay out of biker bars) that my head over-ruled (she's hot, I need the money) and it lead to nothing but trouble (got tossed out, nearly getting killed) every time. Having gut and brain in agreement meant things were probably gonna turn out okay, for once. 

''Nice sunrise.'' Spencer nodded towards my face and I smirked at the accurate description of the bruises forming across my skin. I could feel the stiffness of the larger ones over my back and down both legs as I sat down. Those assholes sure could kick, I was thinking, when my host plunked a cup of coffee in front of me along with some kind of heated up 'breakfast meal'. ''So I'm not a cook.'' He commented, seating himself at the table with me, his own micro-waved meal before him. ''We should talk.'' 

''Yeah.'' I'd pretty much expected this. No one got anything for free, after all. Maybe he needed a housekeeper? The place wasn't too bad off, but you could tell a bachelor lived there. He could also use someone who knew how to cook, even if my skills were limited to Hamburger Helper and grilled cheese. There were piles of take-out cartons in the sink, which told me a lot about his cooking skills; or lack thereof, rather. 

''I hope I'm not going to be arrested for kidnapping?'' That was pretty subtle, I appreciated the round-about way he'd asked if I had any family, any one who looked out for me. I gingerly shook my head at the thought; I'd been looking out for myself for as long as I could remember. 

''Dad's in prison, Mom's dead.'' Despite how tight I held my face, the memories still hit hard. My parents screaming at each other, at the cops; no one even noticing the five year old me sitting on the porch, wondering what the hell was happening as they hauled my father away. Slumping to the floor in the doorway to our bathroom eighteen months ago, knowing that my mother wasn't going to wake up from her bender, this time. It'd been hours before I'd been able to move, to call the cops to come get the body; facedown in her own vomit. 

''Mine, too.'' Spencer didn't try to act sympathetic, didn't sound like he was 'understanding' my situation. Just an even exchange of information, fair trade between men. ''My Mom, not my Dad. Far as I know, he's still breathing free air.'' There was a tone I recognized in his voice; like he wanted to add a **lot** more onto the sentence about his old man, most of it in four-letter words. I didn't dare ask about the thoughts haunting his eyes, he might feel free to ask about the ghosts in **mine**. 

''What did you mean last night, when you said that stuff about the mirror and fishing?'' Good as it was to know we had some experiences in common, it wasn't enough to explain his actions. He hadn't known anything about me at the **time**, after all; not even my name. He seemed thankful for my question, tipping his coffee back with a smile. 

''Well, if I'd left some kid to get killed in an alley by a bunch of assholes, I'd never be able to face myself.'' He rubbed the back of his hand under his chin, leaning back in his chair. ''Kinda hard to shave, that way.'' Okay, that just **barely** made sense, I guess. Having to see what was swimming in my own eyes, some mornings, was pretty difficult. My life was depressing enough without knowing how close I occasionally was to giving it up. ''As for the fishing…….I was being a little pompous.'' I frowned at him, still not getting it, and he smiled wider. I could really start to hate that stupid grin of his, smug bastard. Finding something about him to **dislike** made him seem more solid, real; normal, even. ''It's a saying: 'Give a man a fish, and he eats for a day. **Teach** a man to fish, and he eats for a life time.' '' Now **that**, I understood. It sounded familiar, too; like I'd heard it somewhere before. That left one very important question to be asked. 

''What do you do?'' I put it bluntly, knowing that it was best to get to it quickly. Whatever he was into, I didn't want any part of it until I had the full picture, the complete landscape, as it were. 

''Fuck.'' My eyebrows rose as I realized he wasn't cussing at me, or making a sarcastic comment, or even avoiding my (very legitimate) question. In fact, he appeared to be **answering** my question. I gave him a disbelieving look, asking 'really?' with my eyes, and he nodded, a little smugly, his expression declaring 'yes, really'. ''It's not old, ugly, fat and desperate, either.'' Now I was curious, because he'd pretty much eliminated every type of woman I thought would have to pay for sex. Men paying for it was understandable; because even the girls** I'd** done had the craziest reasons for giving in. My favorite was still 'blondes are more fun', which made absolutely** no** sense at all; not that I had cared, at the time. Point being, women seemed able to take or leave the matter; so why would they pay for it? Luckily, Spencer continued his explanation, tossing our empty food trays and refilling both mugs with black heat. ''Most common are your trophy wives; the hot ladies some old fart married in the same way he buys a sports car that he never drives or a painting he doesn't look at. It's all for appearances, all for show; and these ladies spend all day toning their bodies with no one to ……….''

''So why would they pay?'' It was throwing me, the way it seemed to go against common sense. What woman would pay when all she really had to do was twitch her hips and smile? I mean, if they were as hot as he was saying, then paying for it didn't add up.

''They're not paying for the **sex**, not really.'' Okay, what? Hadn't he just said that they **were**? ''What they're paying for is the shortcut, the 'sure thing', the kept secret. See, with me; they don't have to worry about being blackmailed, or catching some disease, or getting pregnant. They'll get their kicks without having to put up with the losers in clubs or bars, and they'll definitely get their orgasm, if I do say so myself.'' Spencer looked even more smug now, sipping his coffee and smirking knowingly at my expression. I closed my mouth hurriedly, frowning down at my mug. His reasoning was pretty sound, things were starting to click into place in my head. It wasn't that much different from what I'd been doing for months (since I'd skipped on foster care): trading sex for a place to crash. From the car he was driving, this was apparently just the more profitable version. **Far** more profitable, judging by the plasma television (flatscreen, with HD) and stereo system (Boaz speakers) against one wall. ''Those are the bread and butter of this job, those women. Then you've got your 'career girls' who put so much into 'making it' they don't even have time for their **cat**. They just want a little dirty fun, some kick they can brag about to their friends; it's the rare one of **those** that sets it up regular. Next is the 'vengeance vixens', as I call them. Divorcees, or soon-to-be; who want a little of their own back against the cheating hubby, or boyfriend, etcetera.'' 

''I bet they mostly drag you to some event or other to show of their 'new guy'.'' I guessed, earning a chuckle from my host. He seemed relieved I wasn't freaking out, that I was following his pitch. I couldn't bring myself to tell him that it really wasn't that big a shocker. I'd met male prostitutes before, tons of them. Of course, they were mostly gay; did things for money I really didn't want to think about. Compared to that, screwing some rich bitch for wads of cash sounded like a dream job. ''There's gotta be a downside.'' I pointed out, watching him nod regretfully. Figured. Anything that sounded too good to be true usually was. 

''I'm freelance. That means that it's hard to set up a meet without getting busted, and I'm constantly getting hassled to 'join up' somewhere.'' He shrugged, scowling at his now-empty mug. ''But I get to **choose **what I do, and with whom; so it evens out.'' Spencer pierced me with a knowing look, tapping his fingers on the table as he made his counter-argument to my no-doubt eager expression. ''The downsides for **you **would be a lot harder. For one thing, anyone not looking into your eyes sees a kid, not a fifty-year-old man.'' I shrugged, finishing off my coffee. I'd been told that before, that I had 'old' eyes. Guess that's what happens when you've had to roll with the punches since you were able to walk. ''That means the only clients you'd get would be women who don't care; or women who are into something kinky, which can be dangerous. There are some true freaks out there.'' 

''No kidding.'' Sometimes they end up being 'model' foster parents, I thought sarcastically to myself; letting the disdainful drip to my voice convey my total understanding of his point. I still woke up in a sweat, some nights, terrified I hadn't busted loose of the Anderson's place; that I was still there, in that 'perfect' little room with the bars on the windows (bars that had been a real bitch to pry off, but I'd gotten it done, barely in time). The creepily hungry way Rachel had looked at me, the eager twist to A.J.'s mouth………Yeah, I was real glad to be 'off the grid', if that was the kind of environment the system considered good for kids. 

''Best way to do it, if you decide to give it a go; is the stripper route.'' Some of my reluctance must've shown on my face, because he raised his hands to fend off the protests building behind my teeth. Shaking my ass in public was a very different story from nailing some trust fund bimbo in private. ''Hear me out. You can't get a cover job like mine, teaching tennis or dancing; because you can't pass for near old enough to pull it off, never mind the skills you don't have, as yet. Stripping would get you, no pun intended, the exposure you need to build a client list safely. For guys, it rarely involves showing more than you'd reveal at the beach and there's no pole involved, so the moves are a lot less flamboyant. Most stripping jobs, for freelancers, are for parties: bachelorette, birthdays; things like that.'' He was actually making it sound somewhat appealing, but I still had a heavy reluctance pulling at me. Sex I was good at. Dancing……..

''Aren't I still too young?'' I didn't want to admit there was something I couldn't do, something I wasn't sure about being able to handle. He was treating me like an adult, like someone who knew what they were doing. I didn't want to trade that for the ungrateful attitude of a whiny brat. 

''That's the beauty part; no one would think anything of a stripper who stays masked; adds a bit of mystery, too, which is always a crowd pleaser.'' Shit, it sounded like I was gonna get talked into it, especially when Spencer brought up his next point. ''Besides, having a couple of bridesmaids drag you off for 'overtime' is an experience you don't want to miss.'' That was one I hadn't tried; two girls at once. The thought was very appealing; or would be, if there wasn't the dancing thing. He must've picked up on my withdrawal, because he changed the subject. ''Of course, you're under no obligation to follow in my footsteps, here. This is Paradise Hills, it's like a suburb of Beverly; basically where the non-live-in staff and store employees live. Country club workers, too.'' He smirked self-depreciatingly and I grinned a little back at him, relieved that he wasn't pissed about my hesitance. ''Should be plenty of places to shoot pool, if you look. I'd suggest waiting until your face heals, though, before you try earning your share of the rent and groceries.'' I twitched, more than startled at his offer to stay long enough to contribute to the budget. This wasn't pity, then; this wasn't taking me in like a stray puppy and then dumping me when it got inconvenient. This was an honest offer of support, of mutual benefit; and it moved me to be honest as well. 

''I can't dance.'' I mumbled it in the direction of the table, hunching a bit against the laughter that didn't come. I looked up at him from under lowered brows to find him with his head tilted to one side, obviously thinking. 

''I can find you a teacher, if that's the only problem.'' He eyed me searchingly, contemplatively; I felt the urge to straighten, to measure up to someone else's standards for the first time in my life. ''You do know that it's pretty much understood that strippers are 'hands-off' and that even when you do get pawed, it's no more groping than you'd get at your average kegger.'' The weight of personal experience was in his voice and I felt most of the reluctance leave me. It couldn't be that difficult to learn; hadn't someone said that dancing was like sex standing up? I was good at sex, so how hard could it really be? 

--xxx—

''No, no, no!'' 

I sighed, panting as my instructor turned the music off again. Had I ever really thought this would be easy? Shit, was I retarded, sometimes. Nearly a week had passed since I'd decided to go partners with Spencer in his freelance 'escort' venture. He'd gone out to work at least once in every twenty-four hour period, coming back that first day with a pile of thrift store clothes for me. If this was the kind of stuff that got tossed in this neighborhood, I had definitely moved up in the world. Some of it hardly looked worn at all, still had solid seams and everything. He'd only picked up variations on what I'd been wearing when we'd met (wife-beater, jeans, hoodie) saying that the 'bad boy' image could be a real money-maker. When he said things like that, I really had to strain not to sock him one. 

It was like having an actual brother. 

''Pay attention!'' 

I focused on Dana again, watching the way she moved her hips and reminding myself that she was an oppressive, authoritative bitch I wanted to strangle. She'd showed up the second night in answer to Spencer's call, shoving me around and making dismayed noises about the way I **walked**, for crying out loud. Every time I thought I was getting a handle on the dancing thing, she'd start screaming at me and go on and on about what I was doing wrong. Not only was she completely destroying any confidence I had in my ability to even **learn** to dance, but I was starting to doubt my bedroom skills, as well; which meant that I hated every bronze inch of her, no matter how much she resembled J.Lo. with a darker tan. 

Trying to follow her movements, I arched my back and gasped as a white-hot spark of pain locked around my spine. I tried to drop my arms and couldn't help the terrified whimper when I found I couldn't lower them completely. The music went away; everything vanished but the sudden need to be able to move without sending fireballs of pain rolling over my back. Even walking hurt, and I felt a rising panic that I'd damaged something that would make me a cripple, a burden on everyone around me. Being self-sufficient for so long, it was** that** aspect of it that had moisture pricking at my eyes, not the blinding nature of my discomfort.

''Easy, easy.'' Gone was the visciuos drill instructor, the hated focus of some pretty violent fantasies.** This** woman was gentle and compassionate as she opened the couch, encouraging me to lie face-down on the mattress. It didn't help at all; in fact some of the points grew and jabbed deeper. She sat herself firmly on my ass, holding me in place and making soothing noises as she started poking me in the back with a pencil (at least, that's what it felt like). 

''Fuck!'' I fisted the sheets, burying my face in the pillow so she couldn't see the tears building in my eyes. She hit a particular point and I nearly lifted off the bed, calling her some pretty nasty things in Spanish. ''You shitty little bitch!'' I tried to get her off me, tried to roll over without making things worse. She was a lot stronger than she looked, holding me in place as her fingers dug cruelly into the muscles of my back. Suddenly, every point of tension relaxed at once, and I collapsed in blissful relief to feel the lack of that intense pain.

''There, now.'' Dana continued to massage me, gentling her touch when she crossed over the remaining souvenirs baldy and his biker buddies had gifted me with. I moaned, turning my head to face the other way, uncaring of who was rubbing my back as long as they kept **doing** it. ''I think I finally get what your problem is.'' 

''Yeah?'' I didn't care if she was gonna rip into me again and my tone reflected that disinterest. What she was doing felt so fucking good, I really just didn't give a shit about anything else. She leaned forward, her sports-bra covered breasts brushing my bare back. I bit my lip on a groan, feeling my dick start to wake up. Not now, I told it silently, trying to ignore the feel of her breath on my ear. 

''You're trying too hard.'' Something's certainly hard, I thought; then her actual words registered. 

''That's not good?'' I mumbled, peering at her from the corner of my eyes. Spencer had said all he was asking was for me to try; no harm, no foul if I couldn't do it. Now she was saying that I shouldn't even **be** trying? She was crazier than I'd thought. A teasing little grin flickered across her face, almost too quick for me to catch it. The pressure of her fingers changed, her lips ghosting against my cheek as she spoke. 

''If you're too tense, you can get hurt; as you just found out.'' I closed my eyes to the sensation of her shifting to lay on top of my back, her hands sliding down my arms to brace herself on the bed. ''You need to relax.'' Like that was gonna happen with her spread all over me, making my heart rate speed up. ''Roll over.'' 

I obeyed the whispered instruction, keeping my eyes closed as she took advantage of our new positions to kiss me hungrily. I ran my hands over her hips, up her back, cupping her head and wishing her hair was down so I could run my fingers through it. Her tight body pressed hotly into mine, the sound of her bike shorts rubbing against my jeans reminding me of how little fabric was actually between us. Her fingers stroked passion over my skin, making my blood boil. Dana broke our lip-lock to burn a trail along my jaw to my ear as I ran my palms caressingly over her back. 

''God, I've wanted to do this for days.'' She murmured, grinding into me, shooting pulses of need straight to my joint. She sat up a little, letting me ease my hands under her sports bra to roll her nipples under my thumbs. Her breasts were absolutely fantastic, although not as large as some guys liked them. I preferred the easy handful to massive pillows, myself; but to each his own. 

''Fooled me.'' I groaned, pulling her bra off over her head with her co-operation. ''I thought you hated me.'' I muttered the words against the skin of her breasts, sucking and nibbling my way to pull at one nipple gently with my teeth. 

''Hardly.'' She gasped, clutching my head to her chest. I smiled, confidence in my skills fully restored. If I could make a professional like Dana moan (as she was doing right now) then I could start earning, start paying back the man who'd saved my life. Not being a freeloader was my long-term goal; the more immediate one was to make this woman scream with pleasure. A weird sort of revenge for her criticsm, but I'd take it. 

She certainly wasn't being critical now.

I gripped her hips firmly, thrusting mine upwards, rubbing the hardening bulge in my jeans against her as I continued my open-mouthed exploration of her skin. She moved with me, hands roaming over my shoulders and through my hair with enthusiasm. She didn't try to guide me, seeming perfectly willing to let me continue. I shifted a bit and she picked right up on it, rolling over to lay on her back; making little pleased noises as I worked her bike shorts down, following the fabric with my mouth. I planted kisses around her core, inhaling the musky aroma with pride. Looked like she appreciated my bed skills, at least. 

She whimpered as I continued to avoid touching the swollen lips, blowing over it teasingly as if I was trying to cool the heated flesh. When I finally did feather my fingers onto her, she cried out, arching with a hiss of pleasure as I locked lips around her clit. She was tighter than I expected, sliding my finger inside and locating her spot with practiced ease. I added another finger, lapping up the freely flowing juice, spreading her open with my other hand. She bucked into my face as I started fucking her with my tongue, fingers clenching in my hair with a guttural moan. I moaned back, sending vibrations right to that sweet spot and she gasped, spasming against my lips. One down. 

I nibbled my way along her hip, wandering over her stomach with my lips, moving my now-soaking fingers in and out of her pussy, stroking her clit with my thumb. She starting thrusting upwards in eager rhythm, unconsciously cooperating with my plan of making her come at least four times before finishing her off. If I couldn't get her to acknowledge my capability after reducing her to a limp noodle, then I'd have to alter my intended career course. I increased the pace of my fingers, cupping her breast to drag teeth over her swollen nipple, making sure to hit her spot with every stroke. I could see her brown eyes starting to glaze over as she gasped, clenching for time number two, pulling my face up to hers for a groaning, forceful kiss. I smiled to myself as she sucked greedily at my tongue, enjoying the feel of her writhing under me, caressing my back and chest, stroking her nails softly over my stomach. 

I pushed myself up to kneel over her, removing my hand and locking eyes with her as I cleaned her juices off with my tongue. She said something very unladylike under her breath as she attacked my jeans, sliding her hands under the fabric to expertly caress my dick, cupping my balls as she began to stroke me. Good as it felt, having her get me off wasn't really part of the plan. I pushed away, standing at the side of the bed to remove my pants, watching her carefully as she pulled her shorts (that had ended up around her ankles) off and tossed them aside. I had a moment of exasperation when she got up and grabbed her purse, but the condom she held up answered that concern. I went over and stepped close, stopping just short of letting our skin touch, lowering my lips to hover close enough over hers to feel her breath. I held position, waiting for my victory. 

Dana cursed again, wrapping her arms around my head as she crushed her mouth against hers, pressing her body to mine. I put my arms around her, maneuvering her towards the bed, taking the condom out of her hand as I lowered her to the mattress. I couldn't help the smile as she grabbed my hips, rubbing her hot, damp core teasingly up and down my joint. If that was how she wanted to play it, I thought to myself; she'd get what she was asking for. I pushed up, bracing myself with my hands to either side of her shoulders, leaving our only skin-to-skin contact below the waist. Slowly, with a triumphant smile at her startled, glazed look; I started thrusting my hips, pressing my hard length between her legs harder with each stroke, pausing now and again to rub the tip teasingly over her clit before returning to my rocking motion. She really had no idea how much control I actually had, but she was gonna find out.

She gasped, gripping my forearms and thrusting against me, trying to alter position so I'd slide inside her. We shifted around, moaning and gasping as each attempt to gain the upper hand rocketed our pleasure up another notch. I removed one arm from her grasp to apply the condom, holding myself upright with the other hand as I eased into her moist folds. I could ignore her satisfied look at my finally 'giving in', knowing that it wasn't what she thought. Despite how good it felt, it was pretty easy to hold onto my control, I even managed a superior smile when the furrow appeared between her eyes in confusion over my lack of any further motion, once fully sheathed. I put my hands to either side of her ribs, holding her firmly in place with my hips, lowering my lips to her ear. 

''I can do this all night.'' I informed her truthfully, keeping still inside her, knowing the lack of motion would eventually drive her insane with need. The harsh nature of her panting, the frustrated noises she started make, twisting beneath me, whimpering when she couldn't get me to move: it was all so sweet a revenge. Dana moaned desperately, wrapping her legs around my waist, caressing my torso with her hands, kissing every inch of me she could reach, even going to far as to start flexing her inner muscles around my cock. As much pleasure as I was feeling, there was still a corner of my mind free and clear of hormonal fog where I could think, where I could focus on showing her who was really in charge here. ''Ask me.'' I whispered, heady with the charge of taking this powerful woman, this woman who had put me down, and reducing her to a moaning animal. She shook her head, eyes squeezing shut as she fought the demands of her body. It was just like the girl's coach, the school nurse, the store security guard; all the many woman (and some girls) who thought they could lead me around by my dick, who thought they could control me. ''Ask me.'' I husked at her, sliding back a bit so that an inch came free of her tightening walls. She cried out in exasperation, not able to think clearly in her approaching orgasm, or she'd know that I couldn't remove myself completely with her legs locked around me. The standoff lasted for another couple minute before she started to shake and I congratulated myself, recognizing the signs. 

''Please.'' She whispered, becoming a desperate shout as I pulled back (prepatory to thrusting forward, but she was in no condition to realize it); digging her fingers into my shoulders as I began mouthing her neck. ''Please! Oh God, fuck me, please!'' 

I started slow, an easy rhythm that I could keep up for hours, if need be. Dana screamed, arching like she'd been hooked up to a wire, muscles tensing all over her body as she rode out her third climax of the night. Just as she was reaching the high point of it, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes; I gave a hard, vicious thrust, actually moving her up the bed a couple inches. Her screams hit a higher pitch, she wrapped her arms around my ribs and hung on for dear life, crushing her breasts to my chest as I increased my pace, pressing her deeper and deeper into the mattress with each forceful movement. Now I was really enjoying myself, feeling pleasure climbing along my skin not only from the physical sensation of a pretty amazing fuck, but from the sense of power at bringing her to this point. 

She was whimpering her way through number five, sweat soaking her hair as she clung limply to my surging body, when I finally let go. It was one of my better orgasms, seven on a scale of ten, at least. I hung my head in the aftermath, gasping against her collarbone, holding myself up on my elbows and telling myself there wasn't anything to be disappointed about. She'd had a good time, I'd had a good time, there wasn't gonna be an angry boyfriend or father pounding on the door in the morning; what was I whining for? I went to the bathroom to rinse off and discard the condom (and try and talk myself out of the unreasonable funk), coming back with a damp washcloth to wipe her down with. Her brain was back by the time I finished, gazing at me with a weird look as I pulled my boxers back on. 

''What?'' I was used to them freaking out, not being able to handle the intensity of it (like the security guard had) or getting all clingy and thinking we were 'meant to be' (like Theresa had); but this look was new, unfamiliar. It seemed to be more like she was considering something, or trying to figure something out. 

''Trey was right, you're gonna be amazing.'' She started gathering her clothes, taking a deep breath before standing. I knew she was probably a little dizzy, but my confusion made me unsympathetic. Besides, she deserved it for calling me a klutz yesterday. Okay, so I'd knocked the stupid lamp over, but she was the one yelling at me to 'shake it, don't wiggle it'. Totally her fault. ''I wouldn't be surprised if some of your clients end up addicted after a performance like that.'' Dana tilted her head at the bed, smiling a little uncertainly when I frowned at her. 

''Who the fuck is Trey?'' I snapped, hoping to hell she hadn't sold me out to some pimp or something. Spencer had said she was okay, but warned me not to tell her my name; was this why? Because she was a recruiter as well as a stripper? 

''Your roommate? Y'know, Trey.'' We stared at each other in mutual confusion before she smiled, laughing as she dug a brush out of her purse to restore her tangled hair to order. ''Sweetie, you don't actually think my name is Dana, do you?'' I blushed as the realization hit me, wondering just how stupid I really was. It was so obvious when I thought about it: 'Dana' was her stripper name, just as 'Trey' was Spencer's working handle. I bet that 'Dana' and 'Trey' didn't have to pay taxes on their income, either. Which made my business partner's cover job pretty smart, as it gave him a legitimacy he could use to set up a bank account, a stock portfolio, as well as a perfect hiding place for his true profits. My latest conquest came over to where I was chasing thoughts of what kind of brilliantly sweet set-up I could get around in my head. ''We'll pick up the lessons again tomorrow, now that you're more relaxed.'' I was, too; though it had as much to do with the power I knew I had over her as the actual sex. ''You need a name, you know.'' She was brushing hair away from my forehead, looking wistful as she ran a gentle thumb over my bottom lip. Yeah, she was hooked all right. I didn't think the dancing lessons were gonna be a problem, anymore. ''Ben. You look like a Ben.'' 

-- xxx ---

**A/N: **Again, I ask not to be sued or flamed by anyone who takes offense at any part of this (especially Mr. Mackenzie's lawyers). See you next chapter!


	3. Flashpoints

**A/N: ** Okay, for everyone who's expressed an interest: Dana is just a character I used to move things along, I totally made her up. Spencer is using the name 'Trey' as his working moniker (b/c I like the name, but not the character) there is no 'real' Trey, Ryan is an only child in this universe.

I'm trying some time jumps in this chapter, so sorry if it's a bit confusing.

--xxx—

I wasn't nervous.

No, **really** I wasn't.

I'd spent the past month training for this moment, after all. Every day, Dana had dropped by to run me through my paces, instructing me to watch some music television for moves to steal. I had, but I watched it with the sound off (most of the songs sucked). Our choreography usually ended with me trying out something I'd picked up from research on my roommate's computer or in his copy of the Kama Sutra. He didn't seem too upset with my 'bringing work home' as my stripping teacher had refused to take any payment for the dance lessons with a flushed face and a new inability to look either one of us in the eye before she left for the day. She'd advised me to start wearing Speedos (instead of my boxers), to get me used to the constriction I'd have in my stripper briefs. They weren't quite a g-string (thankfully) but they weren't something I'd want to wear on a regular basis; resembling nothing so much as a male version of a 'French-cut' bikini. Her other advice, about the mask, was easier to follow. I'd taken to wearing the thin black leather (covering my face from my forehead to just past my cheekbones) around the apartment so casually that 'Trey' had quipped 'who is that masked man' one morning after I'd fallen asleep with it on.

Asshole.

He'd occasionally taken me along to his day job at the country club, where I was introduced as his brother 'Ben' and had been surprised to learn that he actually **was** teaching tennis to these women (in some cases, girls). 'Pays the bills during the dry spells' he'd commented, before turning me loose to familiarize myself with the grounds. I picked up a couple bucks here and there, giving the valets and caddies a helping hand; taking full advantage of the gym and the pool during 'staff hours' and even winning a pot during the kitchen staff's monthly poker game. Not the larger one at the end of the night, just a little one, early in, so that they wouldn't go looking for revenge for their losses. Or, at least, they wouldn't come looking for **me **(or Trey, as I was learning to call Spencer in public). No one had come looking for me for other, more profitable, reasons either; but that may have been due to the (now fully healed) remnants of my last night in Chino. Hopefully, tonight would solve our little 'exposure' problems, where I was concerned.

Shit. Trey was right, the amount of innuendo you ran into in this line of work was ugly.

So here I was, leaning coolly against the wall and shrugging at the curious and wondering looks I was getting from the other guys as I waited for the DJ to play my 'signature'; a song my business partner and I had **very** carefully chosen for my debut. My shirt and jeans had been altered for the performance, leaving me in my bare feet with my jacket and briefs as the only 'real' clothes I was wearing. My sneakers were under the bar with the other 'valuables' that the dancers didn't trust to the flimsy locks backstage. Everything was going pretty much like I'd been told, like we'd planned. Only the light touch of body oil along my skin was different from the practice sessions I'd run myself through for the past four days straight.

Well, that and the number of people that were going to be watching.

I ignored the whispered jokes about 'stage virgins' as I was motioned into place by the 'director', the lights coming up on me as the strains of Thorougood's 'Bad to the Bone' started playing. I let the music carry me along, burying myself in the carefully prepared moves I'd been taught (and tips I'd been given) as I made eye contact with any woman who held up her money. My jacket was dropped casually backwards off my arms to the stage as I strutted along to the music, growing more and more confident as the enthusiasm of the crowd washed over me. They all wanted me, **all** of them; and it felt terrific, to be in control of that **many** women, to hold a room in the palm of my hand. The screaming when I 'ripped' my shirt off was intense, and I felt my lips pulling sideways into a smirk. This was great, thrilling them with a single, smoldering look, teasing them with the display of what most of them were never gonna get a piece of.

Palming my business card (available for 'private' parties) into the hands of those women who both caught my eye and were wearing expensive jewelry was easy. As a 'guest dancer', I wasn't restricted to the 'no contact' rule the others were, and a single touch along some woman's jaw was enough to endear me to them for life (from the look on their faces) as I took their money. This Oriental chick was holding up a fifty (!), so I lowered myself down in front of her, hooking my thumbs in the loops to either side of the unbuttoned top of my jeans. The look of hungry excitement on her face as she dragged the zipper slowly down was intoxicating; why hadn't anyone **told** me what a thrill this could be? I minimized the boos from the rest of my admirers by throwing my head back and acting like her opening my pants was the most fantastic blowjob of my life. Her fingers feathered against my briefs (checking that the bulge was **all** me) and dropped away before she got busted molesting the dancer. Even guest dancers weren't supposed to allow **that** intimate a touch. Fifty exchanged for a card, I tossed her a teasing wink as I straightened back upright; jeans loose and open but briefs now a little tighter.

If the reaction to my shirt being torn off was intense, I nearly started a riot when I slid my altered jeans lower, teasingly even lower, then yanked them completely free (seams specially prepared to split) before tossing them off to be retrieved by one of the bouncers. The place went wild; apparently I was a huge success. Women started chanting 'Ben' and if I hadn't been warned they'd react like this (although part of me hadn't bought it, at the time), I would've been worried about them letting me leave the stage. Manicured fingers reached out and touched, caressing my legs and (in some brave and long-armed cases) cupping my ass briefly. Finishing the last of my practiced moves, I gathered one more tip from the hungry Oriental lady with a heated look and scooped my jacket up off the stage, tossing it over one shoulder and strutting off to the closing bars of my 'signature' without another glance towards the audience.

I was 'Bad to the Bone', after all.

The reaction of the other guys, backstage, told me who was easy-going (they clapped and congratulated me), who was gay (appreciative looks as I counted my take, standing there in my briefs and mask) and who might be dangerous (jealous glares and muttered comments). A bouncer gave me my 'outfit' back and I re-assembled my clothes, ignoring the moans of disappointment from the homos, telling them that if they wanted a show, they'd have to shell out for it. I was riding so high from the electric thrill of manipulating the crowd, that if they'd offered me enough cash, I probably would've went for it. Luckily, my pre-paid cell chirped at me, just then, and I pulled it out of my jacket with a smile.

Looked like I was in business.

--xxx—

The Paradise Hills shopping mall: two levels, five arms (one of which ended in a movieplex), and three food courts.

Spencer had laughed his ass off when I suggested it but, after he'd heard my reasons, he'd called me a genius. Really, what kind of sense did it make to set up an interview at a hotel? There you'd be, trapped in a room with someone who could be a killer, or a junkie, or a wacko, or (worst of all) a **cop**. Spence may be able to set** his** up at clubs or bars or fancy restaurants; but someone **my** age in one of those places, talking intimately with a woman old enough to be my mother ……. It was like having a huge neon sign over my head declaring 'up to no good'. I'd considered the parks (public, good vantage points, teens all over) but, after scouting a few, I wrote them off completely.

They were _crawling_ with cops.

From the off-duty ones tooling around with their families, to the undercover vice guys looking for drug dealers and pervos, to the big boys (feds) hunting for relaxing mafia thugs. I hadn't seen so many cops in one place since the last time I'd been a 'guest of the county', charming my way out of a shop-lifting bust. My success left me with a huge lack of faith in the intelligence of your average cop. Not that I'd **had** that much to start with, but you at **least** expected them to see through someone who was as lousy a liar as I was.

I secured my bike to the rack outside the north entrance, smiling inwardly as I strolled inside. The bike was more than transportation, it was a symbol that my new life was about more than just surviving, being the first non-essential purchase I'd ever made; and the fact that I'd used my **own** hard-earned (there was that innuendo, again) money made it all the sweeter. I hadn't gone fancy, no sporty sleekness, no multi-geared monstrosity; just a bike. Spencer stopped making jokes when he saw how much it meant to me.

At least I'd stopped stroking the handlebars farewell every time I walked away from it.

The security guard looked right past me as I walked in, merging with the morning crowd. If there was anyone who could make the uniforms in Chino look gifted, it was mall security. In the two weeks I'd been coming here to interview potential clients (eight total, no jobs as yet) I'd never **once** been so much as glanced at sideways by the security force. Some of the reactions had been pretty extreme, too; once the ladies got a look at my unmasked face and realized just how _young_ I probably was. The calmest woman had just patted me on the arm and mentioned, in a regretful tone, that I looked** far** too much like her favorite nephew. She'd muttered something about seeing a shrink (her, not me) as she left.

Seeing someone seated at the bench I'd designated as my interview spot, I slowed down so I could make sure it was today's lady. 'Opal' had sounded pretty interested, but then they **all** did until they were face-to-face with 'Ben'. I was starting to think that I might as well take The Body Shop (they'd apparently had a scout in attendance at my debut) up on their offers to 'guest' three nights a week; because after eight wipe-outs in two weeks……… I felt a little burst of hope when I saw who 'Opal' was: the hungry-eyed Oriental chick who'd tipped me the fifty (to start with) that night. She shifted, re-crossing her legs and scanning the crowd with **far** more discretion than any of the others had. I told myself she could still turn me down as I approached, a theory that took a major hit as her eyes lit up with lustful recognition.

''Hey.'' I sat down at the other end of the bench, resting one arm along the back. My casual attitude was a cover for a seriously tight stomach. This was try number nine, and if this didn't pan out, I'd be stuck with dancing as my only source of income. Not that it wasn't fun, but I was starting to get a severe case of blue balls, here; which wasn't good for maintaining my usual iron control. And it made my stripping briefs uncomfortable as hell.

''Hello, Ben.'' There was still that note of eager anticipation in her matter-of-fact tone, just like it had been on the phone last night. She slanted her eyes sideways at me, raking a look over my body and smiling in apparent satisfaction. ''Nice spot.'' It was, too. Oh, the view sucked ('art' painted on the far wall, crowds of spoiled brats), but the placement was choice.

We were nowhere near the bathrooms or a storefront, which kept anyone from wanting to use the bench to rest their feet or wait on their friends. The food courts were close enough that anyone headed for a spot to sit down in this area just went ahead and got a table and no one could hear our quiet conversation over the surge and fall of general mall noise. It was perfect for my needs, and it was nice to finally have someone acknowledge the effort I'd put into this process.

''Thanks.'' I relaxed, confident that she wouldn't be able to hold out; not **this** one. Not a woman who'd licked her lips and eyed my crotch at least _**five times**_ since I'd come into view.

''How much?'' Oh, she **was **desperate. Spencer had said they'd usually flirt a little before getting down to money matters, wanting to play with the concept before they committed. I recognized the tension in her voice, too; though I wasn't used to hearing it from a woman with her clothes **on**. She wanted it, and wanted it **bad**.

''Depends.'' I leaned forward, resting my forearms on my knees and keeping my face turned forward, giving her my profile. Key to keeping anyone from suspecting a conversation: lack of eye contact. How could I be **talking** to 'Opal' if I wasn't** looking** at her? ''Two hundred for anything up to four hours, over that is three, five for more than eight, or for multiple partners, and eight for involved situations.'' Kinky stuff, that meant, but no need to give her ideas if she didn't already have them. ''No anal, pitching or receiving; no pain, and if you want to restrain me, we use **my** equipment.'' Only smart, that requirement. I'd heard too many horror stories from my roommate about guys who'd used someone else's cuffs and ended up in the middle of something they hadn't signed up for, missing their organs, or dead. ''Condoms or nothing happens, cash only, you're responsible for food.''

''That's pretty strict for someone in your line of work.'' I ignored the implication that I was being too particular. Better celibate (and broke) than sorry, in my opinion. ''How do I know you're even **worth** two hundred? You look all right, but looks can be deceiving.'' The prick to my ego hurt, but I reminded myself that **she'd** called **me** and was able to smile at her, ducking my head to give it to her sideways.

''Are you seriously asking me for a free sample?''

''Not free, no.'' She fingered the clasp to her purse, smiling back at me in profile, her expression challenging. Was she….I think she was, she was actually daring me to be 'bad', right there in the mall. I stood up and brushed non-existent dust from my jeans as I spoke.

''Fifteen seconds, one hundred bucks, don't lose me.'' I thought the price was fair, despite how short this was gonna be, given the risks. Good thing I still had the habit of carrying condoms around (from my Chino days) as I seriously doubted she had any on her.

I turned and walked away, sensing more than seeing her trail me after the count of fifteen. There was a spot I had in mind, I'd found it when I was casing the place for these interviews, making sure I had multiple escape routes available in case I ever drew police attention. The building designers had put in a lot of employee access halls, which mostly ended up holding storage closets and public restrooms. One of them, though, had ended up blocked off when the multiplex got put in. It was a U-shape, exiting the main course (that leg held the bathrooms), turning right (that part had some storage closets), before turning right one more time for a hundred-fifty foot dead end. Not the place to go when running from the fuzz, but perfect for what I was betting Opal had in mind.

I reached the turn, peering around the corner to make sure it wasn't already occupied. Having caught a couple of burger-flippers here one day is what had given me the idea, after all. I leaned back against the wall with my hands in my jacket pockets, two thirds of the way down, waiting. She came around the corner with a confident stride, only pausing for a second before continuing towards me, shooting an uncertain look over her shoulder. She slung her purse across her chest, sliding her fingers inside but not pulling out the cash I'd asked for. Not yet, anyway. She would, though. Now that we were in a smaller space, the smell of what most **definitely** wasn't perfume told me that she was all for this little 'sampling session'.

''Are you nuts? Anyone could come by and see us.'' She was whispering, giving the end of the corridor another glance, before glaring at me. Not in a pissed off way, though; more in a 'I wanna tear your clothes off' way. She licked her lips again.

''You want a bad boy or not?'' I came off the wall with a sudden jerk, startling her into stumbling back against the one behind her, directly across from me. I put my palms flat on either side of her shoulders, enjoying the spark of pure lust in her eyes, leaning in to breathe words into her ear. ''Got my money?''

I recognized the feel of those fingers, shoving bills into the front pocket of my jeans as she nodded at me, sealing the deal. I crushed my lips to hers, letting her scramble my pants open and started to work her skirt up her legs. Good thing she was about my height, and slim; I wouldn't've been able to hold a larger woman up in the necessary position for this. Opal moaned, and I obligingly slid my tongue into her mouth, deepening our kiss. She eased her hands under my boxers, caressing me eagerly and spreading her thighs further apart the higher I got her skirt. I worked at keeping our lips locked together, breathing by sliding aside to nibble at the corners of her mouth before returning to suck at her lips. The less sound we made, the better; and no **way** was I letting her mark me.

Taking one hand off the wall, I retrieved a condom and lowered my clothes enough to release my throbbing shaft. I let her cover me (since she seemed so eager to do so) giving the end of the hall a quick check (nothing) and smirking against her mouth in response to her whimpers as my fingers made contact with the soaked fabric covering her cunt. I wondered vaguely just how long it'd been for her as I moved her panties aside, hefting one of her legs up with my other hand to get a good angle. Pretty long, I thought, as she immediately clenched around me in orgasm when I shoved fully inside her with one fierce thrust. Her hands in my hair felt like an afterthought, like she just wanted a handhold as I pleasured her with savage movements of my hips.

She felt good, though; and she obviously enjoyed what I was doing to her, pounding her into the wall. Her teeth in my bottom lip helped immensely, as I nearly shot off after only her second climax. I reminded myself to jerk off more often, so this wouldn't happen again; and pressed my fingers to the dip (where ass met thigh) on the leg I was holding up. My other hand stroked fingers up and down one side of her neck, forearm braced against the wall for leverage as I increased the force of my thrusts, driving her into orgasm number three, spending with a grunt that I muffled around her tongue. We separated, my hand on her shoulder steadying her until she was able to stand without wavering.

''Here.'' Opal handed me a Kleenex out of her purse to tuck the used condom into, wiggling her skirt back down with one hand.

''Thanks.'' I cupped my hand around the wad, reassembled my clothes, and ran my other hand through my hair, trying to settle it. She reached up, and I let her restore order to what she'd tangled in the heat of our quick and dirty little fuck. ''So?'' I was more than confident that she'd pay _any_ price, now that she'd had her 'sample'. That had better be a hundred dollars in my pocket, though, or she could shop elsewhere for her thrills.

''Hotel Paradise, room 211, six tonight.'' She looked me up and down and smiled with obvious satisfaction. ''Bring your…….equipment.'' Shit, now the **clients** were doing it. I refused to react to her innuendo, even though it was kind of amusing. I had the perfect way to regain control, too; remind her who had come to whom.

''Five hundred dollars.'' I informed her, putting my poker face on for an uncompromising expression. She stroked her palm down my face, nodding her agreement and tracing my lips with her forefinger.

''You're worth it.''

--xxx—

''I can't **believe** this crowd.''

I shrugged in response to Michael's redundant observation, being too focused on remembering the changes I'd put into my signature. The Body Shop was throwing a 'mixed' party for the last weekend of summer; which meant that **all** of their regular dancers (and every guest they could hire) were working at the same time, instead of alternating nights like they usually did. Male and female, straight, bi, and gay; backstage was nearly as packed as the club itself. All three stages were open, and the music alternated from the disco and bubble-pop queers like Michael favored to the harsher throb of rap and funk that some of the wilder girls liked. It was gonna be my first time in front of a crowd that included men, and I coached myself on how to turn down their offers without pissing them off. A smile with the corners turned down, a hand held up in a 'stop' gesture in front of the folded bills; and that was only if I couldn't avoid making eye contact. So long as I didn't lead them on by taking (or even touching) their money, I should be okay. Focus on the _women,_ 'Ben', I told myself, looking around for something to distract myself with. Once I got out there, I'd be fine; it was the anticipation, the **waiting** that was twisting my stomach into knots.

Cheers and sincere-sounding declarations of affection accompanied Aerosmith's 'Rag Doll' and I peered toward the 'girl's' stage, watching one of the newly hired regulars work her routine. She was pretty good, but she was letting the crowd throw her, letting her audience push her around. It showed in the stuttering nature of some of her moves, the way she wasn't making eye contact. I saw at least seven times she missed a good tip because she didn't see the guy's offer. There was no denying she was hot, and she had great potential (or she wouldn't be working here in the first place) but, from the frown on Devon's face; if she kept faltering her performances, she wouldn't be working here long. She didn't have an exit; either, which made her leaving the stage in the silence following the song look sloppy and cheap.; two things that this club definitely wasn't.

''Not bad.'' From the look on her face when she got backstage, she knew she'd tanked a bit. I thought she could use the boost, especially since Devon would be pulling her aside later on for a cautionary speech. The director kept us ego-freaks in line, often breaking up fights when one dancer got resentful of another's popularity and making sure the only high going on was from the rush of performing. He always had a good word for me, though, making sure there was always a Gatorade waiting after my sets; and it had been **his** suggestion to start having the bartender hand out my cards, instead of my trying to palm the sweaty things out of my briefs during a show.

Guy made me feel like a treasured racehorse, or something; which I suppose wasn't **that** far off the mark.

''I guess.'' Her tone was sharp, like she knew I was just trying to be nice. Green eyes roamed over me and I saw them go wide with realization. Mask or not, some people **were** capable of thinking past their assumptions to see the truth. I conveyed a shake of my head with a stern look, and she thankfully let it go, smiling supportively (and a trifle condescendingly) at me. ''Don't be nervous, I'm sure you'll do okay.'' I couldn't help the snort of amusement (she obviously thought this was my first rodeo) and most of the other dancers burst out laughing.

''Lisa, honey, this is **Ben**.'' Jasmine informed her, putting an ebony arm around the bare shoulders. I saw those emerald eyes go wide again and frowned, wondering just what kind of things she'd been told about me, to have **that** reaction.

''Our Benji is **never** nervous.'' I turned my frown towards Michael, giving him my best 'touch and die' stare, because I really hated the nickname the homos had come up with. Benji was a dog, for crying out loud. To which their response had been that so was I, and a cute one, too. ''Benji is a stripping **god**.'' I couldn't help but smile at his enthusiasm. Irritating as the fags sometimes were, they always made me laugh with their flaming melodrama. Besides, it was hard to hate anyone who thought you were 'divine'.

''Ben.''

That was Devon, with his 'get your boogie-butt over here' voice. Looked like the break between sets was over and I was up. I flashed a cocky grin at the others and slid out of my sandals to step onto the stage. The familiar thrill of controlling an audience ran through me, lending a sharper edge to my new moves. There was screaming as my signature started up, and I actually saw women leave the line for the bathroom to shove their way closer to the stage. People started chanting my stage name right off the bat, and only the clubs killer acoustics kept them from drowning out the lyrics. Opal was in the front lines, but I didn't spot my other three clients around anywhere. I let her unzip me (again) lips parting in an erotic grin with the re-enactment (including her giving me a fifty dollar tip) of the first night I'd experienced the seductive energy stripping provided. The smile I aimed over one shoulder, timing my exit perfectly with the end of the song, caused one woman to attempt to climb onto the stage in her single-minded pursuit of my now barely-clothed form.

''Jesus.'' One of the bouncers was shaking his head at how worked up the audience had gotten; the only calm spot being the straight guys (and even one or two of **them** had glanced my way) over in the girls-only area, enjoying their lap dances and ordering massive amounts of booze. He held out my outfit with a look bordering on awe as I slipped my sandals back on, too hot to do more than toss my stuff into a free spot on one of the dressing tables. I sucked at my Gatorade, noting the scratches on his arms with the hyper-awareness of my post-set high. ''Yeah, I had to fight to get your stuff for you.'' He shrugged as I examined my gear for rips or tears in places they weren't designed to rip or tear.

''Go help Jack calm them down.'' Devon ordered the guy, watching me as I finished my drink and pulled tip money out of the waistband of my briefs. He didn't usually hover after my sets, **usually** he gave me time to climb down off my rush of endorphins; but Lisa sitting sulkily back by the lockers wearing a bathrobe clued me into what he probably wanted. ''Think you can help her?'' I nodded, confident at that moment that I could do anything, even fly. He waited until my smile faded into something a little less manic, and asked again.

''It's up to her.'' I was willing to give it a go, for his sake, and that of the owner (some bi named Josh) who I'd yet to see even from a distance. They paid me in cash for my guest spots (two nights a week, three sets a night) without a qualm, which told me they probably sensed _something_ about the truth behind my mask. No one had protested (or even asked for a commission on) my meeting clients through their club, and no one put pressure on me to hire on full-time (again, probably because they suspected the truth). So I figured I owed them the attempted salvage of one of their regular dancers as some kind of payback for the lack of hassle and regular income. It was like Spencer had said, though: no one can learn anything if they're not willing to do so.

''Lisa.'' He motioned her over, leaving her standing there staring at me as he acknowledged word that the crowd was now calm enough to intro the next dancer. 'Buttons' (without the Snoop Dog parts) sheparded Jasmine and three other girls out to a significant increase in the noise level coming from the club.

''Devon says I either sharpen up my act or I'm gone.'' Lisa huffed at me resentfully and I tried not to roll my eyes at her attitude. A lot of the hot-looking amateurs who got into this line of work acted all superior, like stripping was just a matter of flashing their tits, like it was beneath them to treat it as anything serious. They had no concept of how difficult this job could actually be, and got pissed when someone told them they weren't good enough for it. I started toweling off, rubbing my hair more gently than I normally did. With the full docket tonight, I only had one more set to do, instead of my usual two, and more time between them to prepare. Unfortunately, it also meant that I'd have time to come down off my performance rush long before stepping back out there, which meant the second charge would lack intensity. On the plus side, though, Opal being in the audience meant I stood a good chance of getting laid, later tonight, as well as earning even more cash. ''What could some ki….'' My hand snapped out, dropping the towel I'd been using and grabbing her by the wrist.

''Shut up.'' I hissed at her, glancing around to see if anyone'd heard her slip. If they had, they certainly weren't reacting and I pulled her closer with a tightening of my grip. ''I don't really care about you keeping this job, or what you think you know about me; but Devon's asked me a favor, and **I'm** not gonna let him down.'' I released her, turning back to drying off. She scowled at me, rubbing at her wrist with an offended gaze. I hadn't even come close to hurting her, but maybe she didn't know that, not having my experience with violence in all it's many forms. ''You learn, you don't; it's up to you.''

'' You think you can just boss me around? Who do you think you are, anyway?'' She was whispering, but she certainly wasn't about to cut me any slack. Made it more fair, because I didn't intend to cut her any, either.

''I'm a draw; people come in every night, looking for me, and spend big.'' I finished drying and picked up my oil bottle to reapply the light coat that protected my skin from the stage lights. ''So don't think anyone's gonna give a shit what you say about me.'' She was quiet as I continued with my preparations, refastening my jeans once the oil had air-dried; I hoped she was thinking, last thing I needed was some brainless witch wrecking havoc with my life just as it was going good.

-- xxx –

''Come in.''

I was able to keep the gloating off my face, walking into Lisa's place for the first time. Having her admit, last night, that she needed my help; **that** was enough of a victory for me. Of course, my current mellow mood might also be due to the five hundred dollars I'd picked up for two hours work, saying goodbye to Opal. Her job was starting back up this week (did she really think I didn't know what **that** meant?) and she wouldn't be able to come out to Los Angeles again until spring. It was a shame, she was a good, steady customer; but my client list was growing, so it wasn't like I didn't have other sources of income.

''Let's get started.'' Her place wasn't that much bigger than mine and Spencer's, she just didn't have the electrical equipment. Or bookshelves, but I was trying not to judge.

It was easy enough to help her out, now that she'd ditched the attitude. It was even fun, playing 'customer' with her gyrating in front of me. She kept trying to use songs that she liked, until I pointed out that doing** that** sucked all the enjoyment out of the music. Stuff you actually **liked** was for your off time. On dance time, you needed something that fit the fantasy you were selling. Kiss's 'Charisma' and ZZ Top's 'Rough Boy' were good for me, for instance; but she'd have more success with something like 'Hot Girl in a Good Mood' or 'Rock' n' Roll Queen'. Since we didn't have a pole, I ended up standing in for it, which I guess is how we ended up tearing each other's clothes off, staggering our way in a heated clutch towards the bedroom.

We were naked by the time we reached the bed.

She sat on her mattress, looking up at me with a wicked grin before she started licking my shaft, making me groan loudly. It had been a while since any woman had gone down on me, it wasn't a preferred action for most of my clients. They were paying me for **their** good time, after all, not **mine**. I threaded my fingers into her hair, starting to stroke into her full mouth, panting with the pleasure surging through my body. She didn't finish it though, pulling loose to grab a condom out of her night stand. Disappointment nearly called a halt to it, right then, but I had control of my face (and more importantly, my cock) by the time she was sliding it onto me.

I let her spin me around and push me down to lay on my back, even let her hold my hands over my head as she eased her hot little pussy over my dick. She threw her head back once I was all the way in, starting to thrust wildly up and down with moaning whimpers of need. I held perfectly still, letting her get herself off. Oh, it wasn't that she didn't feel **good** (she was pretty tight, a** lot **tighter than the older women I'd been doing lately) but this was so very obviously not about me. It wasn't even about being **attracted** to me, and even my clients gave me that much. She just wanted to get laid, and it probably didn't matter who filled her need (or her cunt), so long as it **was** filled.

Lisa rode me to three good ones that way, giving me a wondering (and somewhat frightened) look as she shuddered her way through number three. I hadn't made a sound since she'd stopped her blowjob (since I'd seen what she was doing) and I think it was freaking her out, just a bit. Tough. I was just barely having a good enough time to keep hard, holding onto my control with an ease I probably wouldn't have had without Opal's little 'farewell', last night. Thinking about the things that woman had done to me, done with me; that made what this woman was doing a little better. Didn't make it right, just better.

''God, what are you, a robot?'' She was climbing off of me, kneeling on the bed next to my hips. Looked like she was done, then, and it was time for her to pay. I sat up quickly, grabbing her around the waist as I shifted to my knees, bending her over easily in her shock and slamming back between her swollen folds from behind.

''My turn.'' I whispered in her ear, arms wrapping tightly around her hips to hold her in place as she cried out at the return of my dick inside her moistly throbbing walls. I moved slow to start, mouthing her shoulders and the back of her neck as I pleasured myself with her body. As many (and recent) orgasms as she'd had, she started returning my thrusts after only my third stroke. I smirked into her hair triumphantly. ''Slut, fucking slut.'' I called her, pulling her earlobe between my teeth. She cried out as I sped up, freeing one hand to brace myself on the mattress, manhandling her breasts with the other, continuing my steady rhythm, fingering her clit roughly when I felt her tightening around me. She screamed her way through two more climaxes before I felt satisfied enough to spend.

''Why?'' The question came from the bedroom door and I looked up from putting my clothes back on. I was surprised that the woman I'd left sweaty and slick with her own juices (facedown on her bed) was able to **walk**, let along formulate even a one-word question. She looked devastated, ragged with more than just the physical exertion we'd engaged in. ''Why did you…?''

''Fuck you?'' She blinked at me, finally nodding as what I said registered with her endorphin-soaked brain. ''Sex or money.'' I saw that she didn't get it and finished tying my shoes, checking that I hadn't left anything behind, as I never intended to come back. ''You wanna use me for sex, then you're gonna pay, one way or another.'' Her brow furrowed and I felt exhausted by her lack of understanding. She really** didn't** get why she should've had any thought to my wants or need in what we'd done. It had happened often enough before, back in Chino. It was only recently that I'd gotten anything out of a fuck besides the release of tension, and since Lisa couldn't afford my prices, I'd felt justified in fucking her as hard as I wanted, holding back just shy of actually hurting her. My face was like stone as we stared at each other until realization crawled over her expression and she slumped to the floor, tears leaking out of her guilty eyes.

I left, slamming the door behind me. I didn't have any more consideration for her feelings than she'd had for mine, and no more time to waste on self-involved little bitches who had no idea what the real world was like. She wasn't even that good a lay, leaving me feeling wound up with no one to do. She'd used me without a second thought, and I'd turned the tables on her with perfect equanimity. Wasn't my fault she cried, wasn't **my** fault she'd thought I'd be so grateful for a piece I wouldn't notice how she was treating me. She didn't **deserve** my compassion, she had **no** claims on my sympathy. Thoughts tumbling in my head, I unlocked my bike with shaking hands.

Everything I'd been thinking was true, damn it.

So why did I feel like such an asshole?


	4. Ties That Bind

**A/N: **This chapter is a little more graphic than the others, so send the kids to bed and don't read it in front of your grandma. VEG

--xxx—

Well, **this** was familiar.

I was sitting in the school's office, outside the principal's door, with bruises on my face and my knuckles reddened with someone else's blood. They'd placed the phone call to Spencer (Trey, my **brother** _Trey Fox_) already and now there was just the waiting. Seven weeks into the school year without trouble (until today) was a personal best, for me; but somehow I didn't think anyone was going to be too concerned with that news. Any more than they'd been interested in my version of the 'incident', not with their football hero's nose flattened to his face. They hadn't been interested in my math skills when they'd accused me of cheating on the tests, after all; nor in my (legitimate) stance on safe sex practices when they'd confiscated the condoms I'd had on me. Said I was 'too young' and scheduled me time with the counselor for my 'sex obsession'.

If they only knew.

That's when I'd started skipping class, stopped paying any **real** attention when I did show up, but it wasn't like they'd noticed. They weren't interested in educating me, or any of the rest of these kids, the hypocrites. All they wanted to do was pass on their warped moral code while maintaining the myth of high school as 'the best time of our lives'. They also wanted to keep the more influential parents happy, which meant winning football games, which lead back to why I was here in the first place. I guess tutoring the quarterback's girlfriend in Algebra when I was supposed to be in English was a crime of some sort, punishable by not seeing a nurse or getting a cloth to wipe my face as we waited for my 'brother' to arrive. Jock-boy, of course, had been rushed off whining like he was about to die, not just had his nose broken. Wimp.

''Oh, **shit**.'' Spencer (call him Trey, damn it) knelt down on one knee in front of me to get a better angle on my face, touching my chin briefly with his fingertips. His mouth quirked a bit and he smiled at me tolerantly. ''You've had worse, pal.'' He fished a handkerchief out of the pocket of his suit, which told me I'd interrupted an interview with my 'emergency', I winced from the guilt as much as the tenderness of my skin as I tried to clean myself up.

''Mr. Fox?'' 'Trey' had no problem reacting to the name, but it took me a couple more seconds. Hoping they'd chalk it up to the beating I'd taken, I stood up to follow my 'brother' into the principal's office. Principal Henderson waved us to the chairs facing his desk, scowling darkly. ''As you can see, there's been some trouble.'' Trey was unfazed by the man's biting tone, resting his hands comfortably on his knees.

''When do you expect the other family to arrive?'' He checked his watch, lifting he eyebrows at the principal's confused expression. ''The parents of the other boys involved? So we can meet out equal punishment?'' The older man huffed derisively, planting his pale fists on his desk in an attempt to look intimidating, but just came off like he was hunched over because he had a sore ass.

''Your brother attacked another student in the library. There's not going to be 'equal punishment'. He'll be lucky if we don't expel him! As it is, I'm not sure we shouldn't call the authorities.'' Both of us stiffened at the implication, a reaction not missed by the balding prick across the desk. He smirked at us, plunking down into his (probably fake) leather chair. ''I'm sure you're doing everything you can, Mr. Fox, to raise your brother properly, after your mother's unfortunate passing…..'' His tone was anything but sorry, he even sounded pleased 'our' mother was dead. 'White trash' was written all over his pudgy face. ''…..but there are programs for this kind of situation, I'm sure the social worker….''

''Give me the file.'' Trey stood slowly, and I frowned at the cold-blooded look on his face. The principal blinked, unable to deal with the change in my 'brother'. I was a little surprised by it, myself. It occurred to me that it was the first time I'd ever seen him angry, and I was both relieved and unsettled by the chill in the air around him. Relieved because violence (in my experience) was always born of a heated rage, not this icy ire; and unsettled because this new aspect of his character was surprising to me. What else didn't I know about him that I probably should? Of course, right now; he was the only person in the world I could trust, so maybe I should calm down. He wasn't angry at **me**, after all. ''Now, 'Dick'.'' My eyes shot to the guy's nameplate, but his first name was Roger, not Richard. Trey didn't usually stoop to that kind of insult, so what….The convulsive swallowing as Mr. Henderson handed my paperwork mutely over clued me in. 'Dick' was a client of someone's, and Trey knew who. ''Get your stuff out of your locker, Ben, we're pulling you out of this dump.''

I nodded and moved quick, hoping that the colossal ass of a school official hadn't had time to call the social worker he'd threatened us with. The fake transcripts I was using wouldn't stand up to any real, experienced scrutiny, and no way was I going back into the system. Those people were even worse than teachers (almost as bad as cops), when it came to admitting they were wrong. I'd learned that when I'd gone to my case worker, the day after busting loose from the Anderson's. She'd called AJ right away, ignoring my panicked reaction, and refused to hear **anything** that contradicted (or called into question) her decision. Luckily, she was also dim enough to buy my 'bathroom break' excuse and I hadn't set foot in Child Services (or any governmental building) since. Well, except for the public library and this place, which I guess counted on a city level.

''So, want to clue me in?'' Spencer waited until we pulled away from Paradise Hills High, easing his Lexus into rush hour traffic. He really didn't appear all that pissed off, despite what the bruises were going to do for my ability to work for the next few days. It'd be Halloween before I was healed, and starting clients during the 'freak' season wasn't a comforting thought. ''There has to be a reason behind this, you usually don't go around punching people; not recently, anyway.'' That last made me smile, and I ducked my head to acknowledge his attempt at cheering me up. I clued him in on the shit that I'd been putting up with, the snide remarks about how 'close' my brother and I were, and the tutoring of the girl that lead to the jock getting the wrong idea that lead to the fight. I probably would've walked away from if he hadn't twisted his girlfriend's arm as he was yanking her along, making her cry out in pain. It wasn't **that** part that had gotten to me; it was the unsurprised nature of her cries (indicating her familiarity with his behavior) that trigged every button I had into a blinding rage. ''You can't afford to **do** things like this, Ryan.''

''Yeah, money's gonna be tight for a……''

''Fuck the money.'' Spencer was sincere in that, and his eyes were worried in the rearview as they tried to catch mine. ''You know our cover's thin, you can't afford to attract **any** kind of attention; because if the social worker's don't get you, or the cops, then there's people like Max.'' My blood went cold and I saw his knuckles go briefly white on the steering wheel. Max was a big threat, the 'bane of our existence', so to speak. She was a pimp, but that was like saying Hitler was a national leader. She _used_ people, professionally, and was **really** good at it. Word had it that she had a degree in psychiatry or some shit, because she was **expert** at finding your handle (whatever it was that ruled you: drugs, fame, money - whatever) and then grabbing hold of it to control you, make you do whatever she and her (often depraved) clients wanted. I most definitely didn't want to attract the woman's attention, not with the 'dates' she'd line up for someone like me. ''Just …….be more careful at the next school, okay?'' He sounded somewhat apologetic, probably for bringing up Max and scaring the shit out of us both.

''Don't see why I have to go to school in the first place.'' I grumbled, slumping into my seat. I was startled by the return of his cold-blooded, angry voice; this time directed at me.

''That's a pretty retarded statement for someone whose idea of fun is hanging out at the library.'' Spencer snapped it off, tone bitingly sarcastic. ''You know better, damn it.'' He took a deep, calming breath, obviously reigning in his temper. I had the impulse to apologize, to cringe away and beg forgiveness before he let fly with the first blows. He'd never shown any tendency towards violence before, though, and I didn't want to get into a discussion about my ingrained responses, so I settled for freezing into place and listening. ''You're young and good-looking and you've got a great hook with this 'bad boy' thing; but it's not gonna last forever. This business is fickle as hell, and a good hook today is old news tomorrow. You're gonna need to expand, to broaden your repertoire a little, and by that I don't mean gay, all right?'' He didn't wait for my nod, but kept going in his reasoning, considering a future past the few months I was habitually locked into seeing. ''I mean stuff with style, stuff you're gonna need at least a high school education for, if not a college degree.''

''And it'd be nice to be **able** to quit, someday.'' He was the one to nod, this time, seeming pleased that I'd followed his thinking. He allowed me time to do my own thinking, extending my expected lifespan into years, not months. It was a new thing, this belief in a future past a handful of weeks; but once I started thinking about it, I couldn't stop. As much fun as this job was, did I really want to do it for the rest of my life? Not that I really could, one day I'd be old and ugly and bald (and maybe even fat) and no woman was gonna pay to get a piece of that. One day, too, I'd be too out of shape to strip profitably, and one day (hopefully decades away) my dick would stop performing at it's best (and eventually, at all). It'd be nice to have a fall-back, something to legally rake in the green so I could retire. Shadows of an old dream flitted through my head and I pushed them away regretfully. _That_ kind of degree needed more money than I'd ever be able to raise, and there's no way I'd be able to snag a scholarship with a fake name (or my real one, not with _my_ record). ''It's not the school, you know? it's the people.''

''Yeah, I see where you're coming from, there.'' Spencer didn't say anything further, which I guess meant I wasn't gonna hear about 'Dick'. It probably wasn't just a lucky break (Atwood's didn't have luck like that) that my principal was someone's client, it sounded more like the kind of thing my 'brother' would've set up, just in case. He was, like me, a firm believer in preventative planning. ''Well, there's home-schooling, then.'' He smiled teasingly as he went on. ''Since you can't work looking like that, you'll have plenty of free time to get a good start. We'll switch mailboxes for the correspondence stuff, let the Paradise Hills High cover fade out. We can probably even use your real name for this.'' That was something to think about, to debate over dinner. Using real names was a risk, for multiple, dangerous reasons; but the post office box was a secure enough dodge, and we could always switch over to a different one, or even a different name. Hell, I might even be able to take my SAT-Ones, which would do wonders for any future scholastic endeavors. ''You should start studying French, too; as soon as possible.''

''((Again with the French shit.))'' I rolled my eyes as I muttered in Spanish. One foreign language wasn't enough for this guy, he had to hound me about how the ladies creamed over fucking French. I didn't see what was so great about it, they got just as wound up by my Latino phrasing as they did his gobbledygook.

''Just because I don't know what you said …..'' He bopped me softly up the side of the head, even gentler than he usually did (probably because I'd had a real beating, earlier) and I made a big show of blowing my nose in the handkerchief he'd given me at the school, before stuffing it back into his suit pocket (booger side out). We both had our issues with physical contact (at least that between men); but the trust between us was so strong that we could horse around all we wanted, just like we were normal. Just like we **were** brothers. ''Asshole.''

''Jackass.'' I shoved his shoulder (not too hard, he was driving) and we started trading insults back and forth, diverging into our respective foreign languages (mostly for the piss-off factor) because nothing drove either one of us nuts faster than not knowing what was going on.

Spencer was smirking at me victoriously; the rules of our insult game being that if you paused for too long (or you started to repeat yourself) you lost; and I'd been silent for more than the agreed-upon three minutes, damn it. His last volley was probably nothing I'd want to repeat in polite company, but it _sounded_ fancy and high-toned, which I suppose was his point all along, the shit. I silently admitted my defeat, slouching even further down into my seat and crossing my arms over my chest in what I felt was a truly justifiable sulk.

Because now I was gonna have to learn French.

--xxx—

''You have **got** to be kidding me.''

Unfortunately, the blonde woman in the red lingerie and domino mask didn't **look** like she was kidding. At all.

I really should've expected it, I suppose. It was, after all, Halloween night, the middle of 'freak season' (which lasted from the weekend before to the weekend just after) and offers like this were actually considered tame, comparatively speaking. A lot tamer than I expected from someone like 'Tina', truthfully. She'd rented out a whole suite at a classy hotel and filled it with 'party' people, most of them professionals like me or Trey, some of them friends of hers from wherever she called home, and some were just there for looks. I knew Jasmine, for instance, was pretty adamant about only working as a stripper. We'd gotten some good tips giving a 'tease' show; a dance that was pretty much vertical sex with our clothes on. It was a big hit with all the guests, and I'd thought that that display was why our host had summoned me back here. Didn't look like she wanted to chew me out, at least not in the verbally abusive way I'd been thinking. Tina was blonde, tanned, and rich; good-looking in a sleek mountain lioness kind of way, and a steady client of Trey's, a real 'wild ride' as he'd once put it. She was into all_ kinds_ of things, most of which sounded like fun. This, though…….

''I'm** not** kidding.'' She leaned back, bracing herself with her hands behind her on the mattress, completely at her ease. Trey was standing to one side of her, wearing a pair of brown leather pants that hung really low while I tried not to bolt from my position by the dresser in my mask and stripping briefs. Yeah, it was **that** kind of party, but I'd really been hoping (in vain, apparently) to get out of doing anything more than dancing around with the other half-naked people before going home to crash. There'd been far too many masculine hands groping on that dance floor for my peace of mind and it looked like I was shit out of even Atwood luck tonight. ''Having sex with two brothers; it's a little fantasy of mine.'' Since he wasn't **actually** my brother, I wasn't as disgusted by her offer as I might have been. I was just………I shot a desperate look at my business partner, wondering if it was simply his greater experience that made him so comfortable with this proposal, or ……..

''Two thousand dollars.'' He said and I closed my eyes, knowing we couldn't afford to turn it down. Home-schooling was more expensive then we'd anticipated: what with all the textbooks we had to buy (that weren't available from the library, of course) and tests we had to arrange for (under the eye of a certified tutor) and everything else we had to purchase (graph paper, computer programs, etc): until I thought seriously about going into the obviously more profitable enterprise of the school supply market. I'd added another day onto my stripping schedule, but even the massive tips I got there only helped so much. My unintentional 'vacation' to heal up from the incident with the football prick had emptied my client list, so I was pretty much starting all over again.

''Let's see the money.'' I choked out, wiping sweaty palms on my thighs. Tina smiled widely, trailing her fingers across my chest as she went over to the closet.

''Don't make eye contact.'' Trey whispered. I looked at him curiously, only to have him shift his gaze away from mine. Oh, so he meant with **him**. That was really good advice, actually. Keeping my mind focused on the woman was going to make this job a lot easier to get through. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, concentrating on the dance I'd done with Jasmine, the feel of her body against mine. My dick stirred to life and I breathed a tiny sigh of relief that I'd actually be **able** to perform.

''Here.'' I looked down at the dresser, where the money was being fanned out across the top. Tina gave me an expectant look and I put a hand on her shoulder, not really sure how we were gonna co-ordinate this. She took her mask off, revealing a younger face than I expected (but still older than even Trey) and reached for mine.

''That'll cost extra.'' I warned, pulling my head back a bit. On one hand, I was hoping that seeing my very **much** younger face would change her mind; but on the other, I really didn't want to lose the money. Especially since she might blame Trey for her freaking out and then he'd be down a well-paying, regular client, which we **really** couldn't afford.

''What a bad boy, keeping secrets.'' Tina purred, running her hands up over my chest and shoulders, pulling my lips down to hers with a firm grasp on my hair. This, I knew how to handle, and I kissed her back, running my hands up her sides to fondle her breast through her outfit. ''Pull out another thousand, won't you Trey?'' She instructed, slipping her fingers under my mask. I tensed, waiting for her reaction as her eyes roamed over my bare face. ''Well, we really **are **a naughty one, aren't we?'' She smiled, seemingly even more pleased than before, taking my head between her hands and resuming our lip-lock.

The extra thousand was a fine motivator, I didn't even flinch when Trey locked the door, or when he started taking her lingerie off, although the kiss she and I were engaged in meant that his fingers would occasionally brush against my skin. The three of us moved towards the bed, peeling the fabric from Tina's body before turning our attention to the scant bit Trey and I had on. It wasn't that I hadn't seen him naked before, but these circumstances were **very** different from a quick and inadvertent look as he was toweling off after a shower, or an unconscious glance when his robe slipped during a shave. I'd known our bodies were hung different, but you really noticed it when you were this close, doing what we were soon to be doing. I was built along classic boxer lines, stocky and short with what had been described as 'Greek' musculature. Trey was slimmer in his build as well as taller, more like a gymnast or a swimmer in the way his body fit together. Our cocks looked about the same length, although I thought mine might have been a little thicker, giving it the optical illusion of being shorter. Shit, I wasn't supposed to be looking, but it was difficult, since I was trying so hard **not** to. I guess it was like the impossibility of telling someone **not** to think of a polar bear. The image of one immediately springs to mind.

Lil' 'Ben' was starting to leave the party so I yanked my attention back to the woman who was, after all, paying me to fuck **her**, not to peek at my roommate's equipment. Trey knelt one knee on the bed, sitting her down on the mattress, stroking her breasts with one hand as I knelt at her feet, mouthing my way up her thighs. She threaded the fingers of her left hand into my hair, pulling my face towards her pussy, already dripping with anticipation. I started licking and sucking at the swollen folds, dipping my tongue in to hit her spot and spreading her open with practiced fingers. Her moans sounded a little muffled and I raised my eyes to see her swallowing Trey's shaft with every indication of satisfied enjoyment. Rather than being turned off by the sight, I was actually a little **jealous** about not getting a blow job of my own, and slid some fingers inside her cunt, thinking that if I made her come hard enough, I'd get sucked off later on. Working my digits back and forth, tongue fucking her with real enthusiasm (or maybe just worked up at seeing how readily she swallowed cock) fired my system, firming my shaft to hardness.

Tina clenched, arching upwards in her climax, cheeks hollowing out as she deep-throated my business partner. He had his head tilted back, hips thrusting in obvious pleasure at her ministrations, trailing his fingertips through her short locks as he moved. I stood up and quickly snagged a condom from the pocket of his discarded pants, covering myself (now that I was hard enough to warrant it) before plunging my joint deep into the flesh between her thighs. She tightened around my dick, now moaning really loud and playing with his balls with her right hand. Her left she held out entreatingly towards me and I let her press my face to her chest, ignoring the movements just over my head as I started to thrust slowly back and forth, sucking her nipples roughly between my teeth.

I heard Trey grunt, saw the movement in her throat as she swallowed his load. I increased my pace, lifting myself up onto my palms to drive harder and deeper in. My partner sat back on his heels, lifting the groaning woman's head up to rest between his legs, blocking the sight of his flaccid length. She wrapped her arms around his hips in a backward embrace, arching her breasts up into his grip. It was kind of nice, actually, to have assistance in pleasing a client for a change. Sometimes it got to be a real chore, making sure you got all the moves right in order to get them off while keeping control of your own impulses. Speaking of which, I made sure I had total control before switching my pace slower, than faster, then slower, then rotating my hips; all the practiced moves I'd once made a client actually weep with.

''God, oh God!'' She shook her head back and forth, bucking upwards to match my movements with wild abandon. From his pained hiss, she was digging that French manicure into Trey's ass with the force of her climax. Looked like my 'brother' was gonna have some trouble sitting down for a while. I kept going, enjoying the feel of her body thrashing under mine, the sensation of having this powerful woman whimpering her way through her third orgasm in response to my actions. Let's see her casually order me around **now,** I thought with a particularly vicious thrust that made her shudder a little convulsively.

''Ben.'' It was said warningly, and I remembered that my usual tricks weren't what **we** were being paid for. Nodding in acknowledgement of his reminder, I let go my control, spending with a mild grunt; her gasping cries of pleasure easing slowly into a calmer breathing pattern.

''Let me.'' Eager fingers reached for the used condom when I pulled out, and my stomach twisted briefly at the images my mind conjured (you can find some really sick shit on the internet when you search for porn), nearly going limp with relief when she uncovered me to drop the thing disdainfully aside, caressing my limp member gently. Tina sat up on her knees to handle me and knew all the right spots to hit, where to plant her lips to best effect. She mouthed around my groin, sucking softly at the skin of my stomach (too soft to leave a mark, thankfully) and licking the area clean. She leaned forward, balancing on her knees; her hands assisting her tongue with working her magic on my cock.

Her grip on my hips let me know that it was soon to be my turn to assess her blow job skills and that thought hardened my dick in record time. Spencer was retrieving a condom when she started sucking at the tip, and the son of a bitch actually chuckled as I gasped an obscenity, grabbing her head between my hands, knees trembling in the wake of what she was doing to me. Shit, maybe we should give her a discount, the woman was almost professionally gifted. Although maybe I was giving her too much credit, it had been so long since I'd had been sucked off that gratitude may be adding a level of expertise she didn't actually possess. I wasn't gonna last very long with her tongue moving around under my length, vibrating with her moans as Trey knelt behind her and slid himself slowly inside. The suction got stronger, pulling at my flesh until I started to move, fucking her mouth with my head thrown back in the face of my climbing pleasure, uncaring of anything but this rare sensation. If this is what it was like to share a woman, I was all for it, especially if we could set the price as high as we had for this one.

I gave a long, shuddering groan as I came, sparks of electricity crawling over my skin with the movements of her tongue as she eagerly cleaned up every drop. I pulled away, letting her upper body drop to the mattress, fisting her hands in the sheets as my partner continued to slowly stroke in and out, her face looking strained as she clenched her teeth, grunting her way through another orgasm.

''You finished?'' I started to look, then remembered my partner's advice about eye contact and settled for shaking my head, wondering what he could have in mind, since I didn't trust my dick to a second round in the mouth of the increasingly animalistic woman whimpering in response to the slow and steady movement of his hips (no matter how much I wanted another blowjob). ''Cover up and climb on when you're ready.''

I eased over to grab another condom, keeping my gaze fixed on Tina's sweaty form to spark life back into my member. I watched as Trey eased them both over onto their sides, pillowing her head gently on his left arm and settling her back against him with a hand on her clit. Tina moaned with disappointment at the removal of his shaft from her cunt. My jaw dropped when I saw what he was doing, and her reaction to it.

I didn't actually **see** him sheath himself up her ass, but there wasn't really anything else he could be doing back there, not and cause her to gasp excitedly like she did. She arched, legs twitching as her body shook and trembled, right arm reached backwards to grab his ass and left one tucked to her chest, fondling her own breasts mindlessly. There was nothing in her gaze but passionate need, and I was positive that there wasn't anything she wouldn't do, no price she wouldn't pay, to have us continue with what we were doing to her. I was getting hard, thinking about that, thinking about how she might want to do this again someday. Someday soon, from the way her eyes locked onto my shaft, grunting emphatically as she watched me cover it with the treated latex.

It wasn't the position that made me tense (braced on my right elbow, laying on my side) or the soaking the fingers of my left hand got as I slid into her understandably slick heat. It wasn't even the somewhat painful grip she took on my hair with her left hand, pulling my head back to suck at my throat like some kind of demented, blunt-toothed vampire. No, it was Trey grabbing my left wrist and setting my hand over hers, which was on his ass. While I understood (in principle, at least) the need for leverage, given our position; this was bordering on homosexuality, and we both froze into place: me trying to deal with the feel of his skin in the midst of my pleasure and him sighing (in relief, I think) when I slid my fingers over the back of her hand to circle her right wrist. I guess he hadn't really thought the move through before making it, a lapse I could forgive since he wasn't insisting on maintaining the contact, or trying something else.

Tina's eyes rolled back into her head and she thrashed (as much as she could, anyway) between us, making sounds I really couldn't identify as my partner and I began moving, altering our rhythm for maximum effect. I had to thrust harder and harder as she tightened around my dick, nearly pushing me out on one or two occasions with the moist tension of her walls. There wasn't much reaction when he spent, nor when he disengaged, pulling himself free of her body. It was only when he got up, lowering her to lie back against the bed, the better angle deepening my strokes as she and I assumed the classic position, that she gave a final, desperate scream. I took that as a signal to finish up, riding out my third (most likely final) climax of the night with a sense of vast achievement. I rested my head briefly on her chest, catching my breath.

''Trey.'' I whispered in horror, frozen in the act of pushing myself off of her, unable to tear my eyes away from the slack features, the gaping mouth, the still expression. Oh **Shit**. ''Trey!'' My hand was shaking too much to take a proper pulse, but I tried, hearing the water cut off in the bathroom. ''Trey, **damn** it!'' I couldn't tell if the tickling against my fingers was her breath, or just nerves. Even the thought that I might be lying atop a corpse didn't give me the boost I needed to move.

''What're you……'' There was a snort of quickly stifled laughter and he smacked my shoulder affectionately, kind of like the slap you'd give a football player who'd tripped over his own feet. His tone was amused and I guess I should've been glad he wasn't laughing himself sick. ''Contrary to urban legend, 'little brother', you can't kill someone by fucking them. Now get off, we've got to wipe her down and tuck her in.'' My skin felt fevered with the force of my embarrassment.

''I never had one pass out on me before.'' I muttered, climbing out of the bed and letting him move in to clean the sweat and other fluids from our client with a washcloth. I used hot water in my shower, trying to relax from the fright I'd just had. I was toweling off when I spotted the glint of gold on the side of the sink. Rings.

My brain flashed on the pale circle around the third finger of her left hand, but the realization that we'd just screwed unconscious a _married woman_ didn't have much force. **She** had hired **us**, **she** had set the parameters of our association, **she** had paid us a_ considerable_ (although I could tell it was small change to her) sum for her pleasure.

Three thousand dollars made the voice whispering inside me that something about this was wrong not only easy to ignore, but fall silent completely.

-- xxx –

Silk sheets were a bitch to fuck on. Not only did the top sheet keep falling off my hips but my knees kept sliding around, which made it hard as hell to get the leverage to continue with a job I was desperate to have over and done with.

After Halloween, I'd finally hit what Spencer called my 'working stride'. I had so many regular, steady clients I'd been able to cut my stripping down to two nights a week. I probably could've cut it to one, or none: but I couldn't bring myself to give up the thrill, although I told my partner it was because Devon and the gang had been so helpful, back when I was starting out. The bartender had stopped handing out my cards due to my schedule being so packed and, until tonight, all my jobs had come from word of mouth referrals from 'Trey' or one of my clients. I'd even worked the three way with Trey again (although we hadn't charged quite as much, that time) at a New Year's party in Los Angeles.

The girl under me started making the gasping noise that heralded her orgasm and I rested my forehead on her chest (choking a little at the alcohol sting of her perfume), tightening my grip on her wrists gently as I sped up, trying to finish her off. She sounded like she had the hiccups when she made that noise, and made this face that looked like a baby about to have a screaming fit (or a constipated rabbit). I never should've taken this job, I thought. If** only** I hadn't been coming off stage (and coming off my stripping-high) when her mother made the offer; if only I hadn't thought that screwing a girl my own age would be a nice change of pace. It was Valentine's Day, after all, and I wanted something special, ignoring Spencer's warnings that a desire to attach anything personal to a job meant that I shouldn't take it. His 'I told you so' attitude was gonna be hard to take, but I wanted to hear him say it; because it would mean that I was done with this stupid, boring bitch.

She was red-haired, appeared a little bookish, and had a wide-eyed look that appealed; or it had when I'd seen her in the club, watching me. Alone in her room, however, was another story. First there was the oh-so-imaginative name of 'Jane' and the cloying mix of her perfume and the scented candles spread out over every single surface. She'd insisted on talking, telling me more than I wanted (or needed) to know about her life and her boyfriends (whom I was starting to pity) and seemed to have the idea that I was here on some weird version of a date. Yeah, okay, I liked the girl-next-door thing she had going on, but she wasn't as smart as she'd fooled her mother into believing, nor as ignorant as she made out about who I was and what I was **really** doing here. The boys back in her hometown were idiots (or just desperate) because she also wasn't nearly as skilled as she pretended, or hot enough to pull off the lingerie she'd been wearing. Jane had this attitude that having sex with me was a huge concession on her part and not something her mother had arranged so the girl would have someone to 'spend time with' while the woman 'visited an old friend'. She also had a tendency to dig her nails into my back as if I needed something to distract me from the 'thrill' of fucking her. That's why I had her arms pinned to the mattress, so I could concentrate on giving her what I considered my standard (three orgasms per customer) and leave. It had been hard, maintaining an erection with her whining cheesy comments in my ear, but it wasn't for nothing that I had the reputation of being a 'sex god'. .

No matter her irritating habit of calling it 'making love', what we were actually doing was having sex, and not even very good sex, at least, not for me, anyway. .

Finally, **finally**, she gave a shudder, clenching around my dick for the third time and I let go more in relief than true pleasure. I gave her the kisses she wanted as I got dressed, letting her have her fantasy of 'doomed lovers', more inclined to indulge her now that I was out of there. I closed the door behind me, and was headed towards the front entrance of their suite (two hundred dollars richer and **much** wiser) when I heard it.

Crying.

None of your business, Ryan; I scolded myself.

Just keep on walking, my brain told my feet.

So I did.

Right towards the crack in the door to Jane's mother's room. Calling myself fifteen kinds of stupid (one curse for every year that had apparently taught me not a thing) I peeked around the door.

Jane's mom was sitting on the edge of her bed, purse next to her on the mattress, handkerchief crumbled in one hand as she struggled to quiet her sobbing. Her hand covered her mouth and she gazed at me without recognition, consumed by her despair, blinking in surprise as I sat beside her. Telling myself I was being the worst kind of moron, I eased the cloth from her fingers, tilting her face up with gentle fingers under her chin.

''He's a jackass.'' I told the woman, gently wiping tears and smeared makeup from her cheeks with the white linen. Her brown eyes gained confusion as she remembered who I was, shooting briefly to her door before returning to pierce me with a doubtful look. ''Job's done, don't worry.'' I certainly wasn't about to give it another thought, was even anticipating the day I'd forget all about it, in fact.

''You don't know the situation.'' She mumbled, catching my hands in hers, halting my attempts to help, obviously using the distraction of talking to me to regain her composure.

''Just because I'm a whore doesn't mean I'm an idiot.'' Her brow furrowed at my even-tempered tone, which didn't surprise me. Most people couldn't understand why I wasn't offended at the label, or any of the other terms for my profession. Why should I be? Not only was it true, but I really didn't care what other people thought of me, they hadn't earned the right to dictate my behavior with their opinions the way my partner had. Spencer thought I was a good guy, good enough to trust with the secrets he'd spilled during a drunken Christmas, good enough to support (and be supported by) me as we recovered from our mutually devastating hangovers. We'd started the new year better friends than ever, close as actual brothers, and that relationship was all I really cared about with more than a passing interest. Offering much-needed sympathy to this woman seemed the kind of thing he would approve of, the kind of thing he might do himself, if he was here instead of me. ''I know what 'old friend' in that tone of voice means, especially one you're seeing on Valentine's Day. So I'll say it again: he's a jackass.''

''Thanks.'' She smiled, pulling my hands away from her face and retrieving her handkerchief. She patted my cheek in a friendly fashion, placing my hands firmly in my lap. ''It's not going to happen, Ben. I don't have that much money to throw around, anyway.''

''Free of charge.'' I smiled politely at the rejection. 'Jane' came by the ego honestly, it seemed, for the woman to think I was trying to make a play for her minutes after finishing with her daughter. ''Just thought you should know, is all.'' I stood to go, stopped by her hand on my wrist. She had a look of concern on her face, of compassion, and I kicked myself for not bailing when I had the chance.

Because I knew, without a doubt, what she was going to ask.

''How did a kid like you get into this business?'' Almost, I bit back with a comment about her not having a problem with it when she hired me for the girl in the next room. Almost, I went for the classic quip about being lucky. Something in her eyes, though, or maybe just the fact that it was Valentine's Day……. I dunno what it was, but I told her the truth, or at least part of it.

''My Mom's dead, Dad's in jail. Broke out of foster care before I could end up somewhere that makes this job look tame.'' I shoved my hands into the pockets of my jacket, looking her straight in the eyes so she'd know I wasn't playing for sympathy, wasn't trying for a pity-fuck. **This** was the real, ugly truth under the fantasy she'd hired and I was betting she couldn't handle it.

''I was visiting a man who thinks he's 'Jane's' father. He cheated on his dying wife with me. He wasn't the only candidate, just the only one who was willing to pay child support.'' Good thing I hadn't had any money on that bet. It sounded like her life had once been as fucked up as mine had. I liked that she hadn't given her kid up, that she'd tried to give the girl as good a life as possible. It wasn't the woman's fault her daughter ended up a huge moronic slut despite her best efforts. I gave her a smile, meaning it this time and she stood, still holding me by the wrist. She put her other hand on my shoulder, leaning in, and I closed my eyes in preparation.

She kissed me softly on the cheek and walked away, heading towards 'Jane's' room.

I stood there in shock for a few seconds before remembering that I had yet to make my escape. I left (nearly ran, truthfully) not wanting to spend any more time with that girl than I had been paid to. Besides, her mother had given me a new sensation to process with that gentle peck; something I never thought I would feel towards a woman in my life.

Respect.

--xxx—

**A/N2: **To everyone who's going to ask: **NO**, 'Tina' is **NOT** Kirsten. How sick do you think I am, people?

Wait, don't answer that. VEG


	5. Bonds That Break

**WARNING**

**This chapter contains scenes of death, drug use, sexual acts between two males, and other imagery that some might find disturbing. If ****ANY**** of this is not to your taste, please, ****DO NOT**** read this section**

Seriously, if you think that you won't like the subjects in this chapter, DO NOT READ IT.

I will provide a general summery, through PM/Email for those readers who like this story, but don't want to read this chapter.

One last time: if you are uncomfortable reading about death, drug use, male/male sexual acts, or other such scenes -- _do not read this chapter, as it is rated M for those very reasons. _

--xxx—

**A/N: **Be aware, this chapter contains Dark!Ryan and some very intense stuff (see above) that may not be to everyone's taste. Email/PM me (but don't flame) if you want an overview instead of taking the risk of reading this.

PS – It occurs to me that some people might take offense at how I have Ryan react to certain things in this one; so please remember this is **fiction** and the views expressed herein are not necessarily those of the author (or even the character, he's having a rough time).

_**You have been warned. **_

--xxx—

''Trey?'' I knocked on the door, trying to keep quiet so no one else in the hotel would wake up and see me. I wanted to knock the damn thing down, wanted to charge in and find out just what the hell was going on that had my partner calling me to bring him latex gloves and bleach at two in the fucking morning. ''Trey, it's me, Ben.'' The door creaked open, revealing a haggard figure that bore small resemblance to my best friend.

''Hey.'' Shit, he even** sounded** like warmed-over death. I shoved my way past him, stopping as soon as I crossed the threshold. I'd thought that maybe he was into something kinky, that maybe he needed me to bail him out of a 'situation' with a client. I'd even entertained the ludicrous thought that he was gonna attempt suicide and that this was his round-about way of asking me to stop him.

It was worse than that, though.

Much worse.

''Oh my God.''

My whispered comment hung in the air, my mind struggled with a strong surge of déjà vu, of that morning two years ago that I'd woken up to find my mother dead on our bathroom floor. Alcohol poisoning, that had been; death by Stolichnaya.

From the rubber tube around her arm, the needle laying on the bathroom floor, this was more like death a la John Belushi.

''It's not what it looks like.'' Trey had a hang-dog expression, wiping his hands repeatedly on his shirt. I took a closer look around the room, feeling the bottom drop out of my stomach. The rumpled sheets told me he'd done his job, which meant we were well and truly screwed by the situation.

''It looks like your client od'd on you, Trey.'' I fought to keep my voice calm, to keep from screaming at him. I was the teenager, here, if anyone should be fucking up** this** bad, it should be me. I looked around, trying to calm the rapid beat of my heart, the unsteady pattern of my breathing. ''Where'd she get the shit, anyway?'' I knew he hadn't supplied it, wouldn't have joined her in her high, would've left before doing her if he'd known she liked to get lit. The guy was something of a body fascist; he didn't even **smoke**, for crying out loud.

''Brought it with her, I guess.'' He wiped his hands on his shirt again and I took a deep breath, steadying my nerves. A male prostitute in a hotel room (even a nice one like this) with an overdosed socialite………. You didn't have to be a rocket scientist to see where the cops were gonna lay the blame. He'd have to have more than an amazing lawyer to get off without **some** kind of charge, he'd have to get a **miracle worker**. Even if he managed to skate on the death, though, there was still the solicitation rap, and there was no **way** in even the most forgiving of courtrooms that he was gonna beat** that**.

And then there was me.

An investigation was going to turn up every dirty little secret he had (and from the jewelry on the dresser, there was **gonna** be an investigation) and that included the teenage stripper cum prostitute living with him. My testimony to the contrary, he'd probably find himself slapped with child molestation charges; corruption of a minor at the very least. If he was **phenomenally** lucky, Trey wouldn't see the light of day for a decade, and that's if he was a model prisoner.

As for **my** fate, that was far less certain. Return to the Anderson's house of horror was certainly a possibility, so was Juvie. Of the two, I'd rather be locked up with a bunch of gang-bangers and thugs trying to make me their bitch than go back into foster care. At least with the criminals, I'd have a fighting chance. I decided that, if it came to an investigation, I'd just steal a car or commit some other felony. Maybe I'd get the opportunity to strike a police officer, gaining me some notoriety as a 'tough guy', which would help.

Our gazes met in total understanding of how utterly we were screwed. No one had to mention the risk we were taking in trying to cover this up. Whatever our fates if we called the cops right this second, they were gonna be ten times **worse** if anyone ever connected us to her death in any way. But calling the cops would also destroy both our lives (mine more than his) and I could tell that Trey thought that protecting me from the Anderson's was worth the possible murder charge. I wondered if it had occurred to him that Max had contacts in the precinct, and would like nothing better than to sweep in to rescue us, thereby securing our services for the rest of our (guaranteed) miserable lives. From the way his hands were shaking, I thought that the most feared female pimp in Los Angeles had **definitely** been on his mind, because she was the only person in the world Trey was actually frightened of.

Wordlessly, we got the gloves out of the bag I'd brought and put them on. We soaked washcloths in bleach, wiping down every single surface on the off chance Trey had _breathed_ on it. We turned on the ventilation system to disperse the fumes as we worked, and I was just thankful that no room service had been ordered, that he'd been smart enough not to use the room's phone. The maids would remake the bed and the hotel would wash the sheets, so we could leave that untreated. Nothing would arouse the suspicions of the hotel staff like a bed dripping bleach into the carpet. Learning that Trey had used the facilities, I poured half the amount remaining in the container down the toilet, and the other half I split seventy-thirty down the shower and the sink, respectively.

We changed our gloves, careful not to touch anything that we'd just cleaned, and put on a new set (because we didn't want to raise suspicions by having there be bleach on the body, when it was found). The client (it was easier to think of her that way, as nameless) had luckily taken a shower before accidentally killing herself, so we just dressed her in her clothes and jewelry, making sure we hadn't missed so much as a hairpin. Soon, all that was left to do was to relocate the body to some cheap motel and strip her down, re-creating the scene of her overdose. The drugs were in the bag with the empty bleach bottle with the gloves (which I would carry) and we stood silently on the carpet, trying to psych ourselves up for the task at hand.

Trying to think of a way out of this that didn't involve toting a dead body around.

''You guys okay?'' I tried not to scream, saw Trey twitch and nearly smack the client's head into the hood of her car. We'd decided to use her vehicle and take a bus back to pick up his Lexus and my bike. He had already returned his fee to her wallet, going a bit green around the mouth as he did so. I didn't envy him the task of carrying her, of easing the stiff form of a woman he'd recently fucked into the back seat of a soon-to-be-stolen (however briefly) car. We'd have to seriously stock up on the booze for a while, to get my partner through this; hell, to get **me **through this.

''She's just a little drunk.'' He passed off the lie remarkably well and I tried for a casual air as I dropped the bag onto the floor of the backseat, blocked from view by the open door. ''We're gonna drive her home.'' That should've been it, most people would've walked away right there and forgotten the incident before breakfast. Atwood luck in full force, of course, this guy was sticking around; to do his 'good deed' for the year, probably.

''Which room?'' I stared in horror at the dark-haired boy in the polo shirt and chinos, knowing that the longer we stayed here, the more questions we answered, the more suspicious he was likely to become. He was just the sort of lucky break homicide detectives prayed for, and I wished he'd chosen another time for whatever the **hell** it was he was doing in the parking garage. ''Look, I can help, which room?''

''It's okay, she didn't trash the furniture or anything.'' Trey soothed the guy, slamming the door shut on our problem (making me jump) and motioning me to get into the passenger side. ''Just a drunken binge, she'll get over it.''

''I'd like to see that.'' The kid stepped closer to the car, put a hand on the driver's open door. He was staring sympathetically at us both and he tilted his head significantly towards the back seat. ''It's not everyday you see someone get over being dead.'' We both froze in the act of getting into the car, eyes meeting in horror and shame. Now we were in for it.

''What do you want?'' I lifted eyebrows at my partner's offer, to be met with a resigned shrug. I suppose it was too late to plead ignorance, not with the compromising position we were in; and if the kid really wanted to make trouble for us, he would've gone screaming to the cops already. Come to think of it, why hadn't he?

''I told you, I want to help.'' Disbelief throbbed in the short silence and it was the kid's turn to shrug. My eyes narrowed suspiciously, because there was something off about this guy, something weird. ''My parents own this hotel and a death would be very bad for business, even an accidental one.'' Trey was nodding, but I thought the story was a little flimsy, myself. Oh, I believed that his parents owned the place, he had that casual air of the moneyed set. It was his reasoning that was kind of weak. People had a morbid fascination with death, so a dead woman at his parent's hotel might actually be** good** publicity.

''I don't think….''

But Trey was already giving him the room number and thanking him for his help. It was either stay and try and keep the strange guy in line, or go with my friend and support him through this. After seeing the look on his face, it was no choice, really. We chose the Seashell Inn for it's decrepit neighborhood, increasing the possibility that someone would rob the client of her jewelry or steal the car, thereby further confusing the issue for the cops. A scalding hot bath muddied things (like time of death) even more, and we re-set the stage for the client's last moments. We stood there looking down at her deceptively peaceful expression for a long moment before he finally spoke.

''Rest in peace, Jeri.''

--xxx—

It had been two weeks since the dead body, nearly to the day. After forty-eight hours of staring morosely at the walls of our apartment, waiting to hear about any fall-out, we'd finally gone back to work. Burying ourselves in the warm embrace of other (living) women was comforting, and neither of us had known 'the client' very well, anyway.

We just avoided anyone who looked even remotely like her.

Good thing brunettes were so rare in California.

Spencer didn't seem to have any problems with it, acting like nothing had happened; but he was drinking. Beer had appeared in the fridge, and I was trying not to be nervous about it. There were still groceries, after all, and the absence of hard liquor made my concern seem overdone. The booze was taking a long time to disappear, too, so he wasn't drinking too heavily. Probably he was just using it to get to sleep; I knew I'd had plenty of nights where I'd lain awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if there was something I could've done, **should've** done, to save my mother.

I sat down at my 'interview' bench, glancing at my watch. It had been a while since I'd interviewed a new cl…… a new customer, so I was a little early. I settled back to watch the crowd, arm along the back of the bench as I tried to guess which woman was 'Natalie' and speculating about the favored sexual practices of the ones who proved they weren't her by walking past me without a second glance. Spotting who was approaching through the mass of people, I couldn't help but tense, unable to move as he seated himself comfortably next to me.

''Hello.'' I turned my head in a disbelief to stare at the kid from the parking garage. He had been in the door to the stairwell when Trey and I had returned from our gruesome errand, that morning, giving a little wave of acknowledgment before going back into the hotel. I had honestly believed that that was the last time I'd see him. How the hell had he found me? More importantly, **why** the hell had he found me? My stomach clenched as my mind raced through the possibilities, none of them pleasant. ''You're Ben, right?''

''What do you want?'' It came out pretty harsh, but I was unnerved by his presence, especially his presence** here**, at my 'interview' site. That spoke of concentrated effort, of a willingness to spend time and money tracking me down; not to mention having that 'Natalie' chick set us up. I didn't like the reasons why he'd do such a thing and figured I'd better confront him on it right off. I wanted the bad news as quickly as possible, so I could start planning my way around it, out of it, through it; whatever.

''You don't have to say it like _that._'' He pouted his lip at me, turning to face me from his end of the bench, curling his left leg to hook the ankle under his right knee. His posture sent signals that gave me a **very** uneasy feeling about this guy, more so than when he'd first sat down. He was **too** sure, **too** confident; whatever he was here for, he didn't think he was gonna get it, he **knew**. He reached into the inner pocket of the sports jacket he was wearing, pulling out a small rectangle, and laying it facedown on the slats between us. ''Got something you might want to see.'' I didn't, every instinct told me** not** to pick it up, to run as far as I could and never look back. My hand shook as I stared into his superior expression, sliding a thumb under the edge of the slick paper and flipping it over, glancing briefly down. Oh, **shit**. I closed my eyes, feeling him slip the picture of a used condom from my grasp. ''I guess you guys forgot something.'' Yeah, we forgot to blow this fucker's brains out, I thought.

We were such **idiots**, to have trusted him, to have let him become involved in our lives. We should've split up, one of us should've stayed in the room until the maids arrived, to assure the destruction of the final bits of evidence. Hell, we should've just emptied the fucking trashcan! I swallowed past the lump of terror in my throat, licking my lips and opening my eyes. Soon as I had, I wished I hadn't, because he wasn't looking me in the eye.

He was staring at my lips.

''No.'' I whispered it in horrified realization, knowing beyond a doubt what he was going to ask for. My gut was one huge knot, pushing my breakfast up towards my throat. ''No way.''

''I haven't even asked.'' His eyes glittered, fingers tracing a random pattern on the back of the bench, inches from mine. I snatched my hand away, turning to stand up. All we needed to do was change our working names, he'd never be able to find us, not again. It was a desperate thought, proven useless as he spoke again, freezing me in the act of rising. ''Does Spencer Davis know you're willing to let him go to jail? Does he really mean that little to you?'' I couldn't breathe, my blood pounding through me so loudly it was deafening. How the hell had he found out Trey's real name? Did that mean he knew mine? How much **did** he know? I gripped the edge of the bench seat to either side of my knees, staring at the floor as the guy continued to talk. ''You don't have to assume it's going to be awful. We could be good friends, you and I.'' His hand reached out to touch me and I jerked away, glaring sideways.

''Friends don't blackmail each other, jackass.'' Far from being offended at my angry, hostile tone; he appeared excited, like he was happy to have gotten a response from me. ''Who are you, anyway? And what,** exactly**, do you want?'' I thought I knew, and he was giving every indication I was right, but I wanted to hear him say it, know precisely how fu…….Oh, please, no. Not that. Please let it not be that.

''My name's Oliver. Oliver Trask.'' He waited, like he actually expected me to tell him **my** real name. There was a tiny drop of relief when I saw the flick of disappointment cross his face at my silence. He didn't know who I was. That was something, at least. ''And in return for not giving the police my little keepsake…….'' He patted the jacket pocket that held that damn photo and any relief I felt over his one spot of ignorance vanished completely. ''…...well, Ben, I want **you**.'' Bile surged further up my throat and I shook my head convulsively, cursing internally at having my worst fears realized.

''I can't.'' I whispered, disgusted with how weak my voice came out, how full of despair it sounded. Was I a fighter, or not? I swallowed heavily and shot him a hard look, wishing it was possible to fix this by pounding the shit out of him, because I really, **really **wanted to hit him. Repeatedly. ''I find out how to destroy that 'keepsake', by the way, and you're dead meat.''

''Nice to know my options.'' He wasn't concerned at all, damn him, even propped his head up on his left hand to stare at me with an avid hunger that made me want to snap his neck. I liked being angry, it made the possibility of vomit much less certain, but I still wanted him to suffer a fatal accident. Preferably a painful one, like someone (say, a kid from Chino) pushing him over the rail from the upper level. ''Now, here's yours. You can walk away, at which point I give the police a nice little anonymous present and your buddy Spencer goes to prison. You'll probably end up in Juvie or foster care, depending on whether the judge is into 'tough love' or not.'' I closed my eyes again, wanting to close my ears as well. Wanting to go back two weeks and bitch-slap myself for ignoring my instincts and not warning Trey that the guy was trouble. ''If you want to keep the status quo, it won't cost you as much as you think.'' I shook my head and he sighed dramatically. ''I just want to touch you, maybe a blowjob or two.'' I snapped my head up, opening my eyes to give him a baleful stare, wondering how I got myself into this.

For just a second, I hated Spencer for creating this mess, and that made me even more disgusted, this time at myself.

''You want me to puke on your pecker?'' The very thought of touching another guy that way made me want to throw up. Confusion flirted with his expression and he smiled, risking his life by chuckling at my irritated scowl.

''No, no. Not you giving me, Ben; me giving you.'' I blinked, honestly startled. He shrugged, smile widening at what he perceived as his victory. ''We all have our little quirks, that's just one of mine.'' Oliver opened his mouth, no doubt to continue, but I'd already heard more than enough. We could move, leave town, find somewhere to go that this guy couldn't find us. There was no **way** he was connected enough to track us down if we went somewhere like, say, Vegas. I had taken two steps away when he hit me with it, the final ace up his sleeve. ''Spencer's is a very strange reaction to the name 'Max'.'' He came up to stand beside me, tilting his head like we were talking about the 'art' on the far wall. ''She's such a nice woman, too.'' She was a soul-sucking witch who'd perfected the mind-fuck to such an extent that big, bad **made** guys went pale when she came up in conversation. Word was that it wasn't until you found yourself doing things miles over the line that you realized what she'd done to you. I had no intention of ever finding out if it was true.

''You wouldn't.'' I couldn't help the pleading note in my voice, unable to even think when threatened by a fate literally worse than death. The cops would eventually close the case (or send us to jail) and this guy would someday stop chasing after us (after me); but Max? There wasn't **anywhere** we could hide from Max, not once she decided we were 'hers'. Once so labeled, we'd be lucky to wind up dead in a ditch by year's end. My only hope was that this Oliver guy probably didn't want me to suffer such a fate. ''I……'' I swallowed, clenching my hands into fists as I struggled with the only real choice I could see to keep this new life I'd created. My head dropped down to stare at the floor and I wondered if I'd even want to live my **former** life, after this. ''Meet me at …………'' Not Hotel Paradise, I met too many of my customers there, and I really didn't want any witnesses. I discarded several options as being too far away, I wanted to speed through this before I changed my mind and doomed myself and my partner to a better than figurative hell, because I bet Oliver was just petty enough to sell us out to the worst of our options, if rejected. No way did I want anyone **ever** knowing about this (most especially not the man who'd saved my life), which meant I had to find somewhere that I'd never been, that Spencer had never been, that no one I knew was likely to ever set foot. I had it, and was actually able to speak past my rising gorge. ''There's a Howard Johnson's in the far parking lot. Get a room.''

''I'll give you an hour before I call the cops.'' I wanted to plant my fist through his head at the reminder (did he really think I'd forget why I was doing this?) but fought it back because I had a more important task.

Finding somewhere to throw up.

He ushered me into the room eagerly, already having divested himself of his shirt and shoes. He wasn't in bad shape, I noted, wiping the back of one hand across my mouth. Spending half an hour bent over a sink in the mall had left me with nothing left to bring up, but the impulse still flared up every time I thought about what I was doing here, what I was about to let happen. Oliver moved past me, having locked the door, and lay down on the bed. He looked eagerly up at me, happy as any spoiled brat that was getting what he wanted. I trembled, taking one hesitant step forward, two; before staggering to lean heavily on the dresser. My host sighed and I saw him sit up out of the corner of my eyes, reaching for the phone with a regretful look in my direction.

''**Gimme** a minute, damn it.'' I turned around, resting back against the dresser. Think of it like a stripping gig, I told myself; like a private party kind of thing. I was breathing heavily, like I'd just run a marathon or something. Steeling myself, I took off my jacket and tossed it aside. He laid back down on the bed, propped himself up on his elbows as he watched me undress. There wasn't much to watch, as yet, but he still licked his lips and ran his eyes over me like I was already naked.

''This would go better with music.'' I shook my head at his suggestion, not wanting to spoil my enjoyment of stripping with memories of this incident. It was bad enough that I'd probably never be able to stand having my dick sucked, ever again, but I wasn't going to let these memories (hopefully, swiftly fading ones) poison anything else. ''If you say so. You're the expert, Ben.'' He spoke my name with affection, like he hadn't had to force me to be here with the foulest methods.

''Just so we're clear, I'd rather be getting a root canal from an epileptic.'' I kicked off my shoes, wondering which piece of clothing I could remove next (without feeling exposed) and how long he was going to let me stall. His excitement over my obvious rage towards him was evident and I dropped my gaze to the carpet to avoid seeing his reaction. Socks. I could take off my socks, and I slipped out of them by sliding my feet along the floor. Okay, what next. Belt?

''The point is that you're here.'' I fiddled with the hem of my shirt, wishing clothes for men had more layers. He tsked and I heard movement, peeking back up to see him coming towards me. Oh shit. Oliver took a grip on my tee, lifting it up. I didn't resist as he pulled it off, hoping that he'd be satisfied with the little I was going to be able to give him. Hoping I'd be able to get through this without puking. ''That's all that matters to me.'' He ran his hands over my chest and shoulders and I couldn't keep my skin from crawling, from stiffening at the feel of him touching me. He started unbuckling my pants and I closed my eyes, biting my lip and trying not to **feel** his hands sliding under my boxers, cupping my balls, exploring my limp shaft. ''I don't mind if you think of someone else.'' He whispered into my ear, making me shudder; my fists clenching against the desperate urge to push him away, to get his hands **off** my body.

He pulled my underwear down with my jeans and I stepped mechanically free of the fabric. His fingers raised the hairs all along my legs, I could feel his breath on my inner thighs. I opened my eyes to stare at the far wall, liking the images that were appearing behind my eyelids (things I was praying, actually praying, he wouldn't try) even less than what I saw with my eyes open. I twitched away when his tongue touched my balls, slamming my ass back against the dresser, hands clenched on the top so I wouldn't reach down and shove him away from me. He'd probably call Max to come get me right then and there if I did. Oliver started licking at my cock, planting kisses around my groin and sucking gently at the tip. His fingers were hitting all the right spots, but my inner coaching about how satisfying this little kink of his was the best of a bad situation wasn't working all that well. Obviously.

After a while, he started to look frustrated, his movements getting a little more insistent. I figured I better find something to inspire my dick to life before he got pissed off and called in one of his threats. Who to use, though, because I hadn't had anyone give me……. Tina. Of course. He was even using some of her same tricks to stir me to hardness, which might make it easier. I closed my eyes to better imagine her in his place, substituting his fingers for hers, his mouth for her pouty lips. He gave a satisfied groan as things finally started to progress, nearly breaking my concentration. I painted as complete a mental picture as I could, trying to hold onto the thought of Tina as he took my growing length into his mouth, starting to suck in earnest. He rested his hands on my hips, deep throating me with a satisfied hum. I bit my lip on a whimper, shaking with self-disgust.

Because it was actually starting to feel good.

Only by telling myself that it was a natural, unconscious reaction to external stimuli (and the thought of Tina) was I able to maintain my erection (and my sanity). I didn't want it to last, so I loosened my control so that he'd be able to get me off quicker. The fifteen minutes it took felt like an eternity, like I spent fifteen centuries waiting for him to grunt happily as he swallowed my load. His eyes were shining as he stood up from where he'd been kneeling, wiping his thumb suggestively across his bottom lip, locking gazes with me. My throat locked and I rushed naked into the bathroom, dry-heaving into the toilet.

''See you in two weeks.'' The thought that I'd have to go through this again, all over again, made my stomach spasm, choking on the nothing I was bringing up, deaf to the sounds of him leaving.

I scrambled back into my clothes, not knowing if he'd checked out or not and wanting to rush home and take a boiling hot shower with lye soap and the roughest sponge I could find. To scrape the sensation of **Oliver** from my skin, to erase every sense memory associated with his touch.

For the first time since I'd left Chino, I felt dirty and used.

--xxx--

''Little young for that, aren't you?'' I swallowed a snarling response to his comment with the beer, tipping it back to empty the bottle and ignoring my roommate's observation.

It'd been a month since the dead body and I'd just finished my second of the 'payoffs' to Oliver yesterday. This time, he'd sat me down on the bed to get his thrill, jacking me off with his mouth around the head to catch …….Just thinking about it made me want to forget it (a feat I had yet to manage with the last time) which was when I'd remembered the beer. Spencer hadn't been drinking it lately, apparently he was sleeping better. I was happy for him, but if he wasn't going to use the stuff, then he should let me fuzz my brain against the memories I wanted desperately to scoop out and discard like moldy cheese. I popped the top off another bottle, and felt a brief moment of shame at my actions when he frowned; followed closely by rage. This was all **his** fault, he should just let me deal with it and leave me the fuck alone. The guilt I felt over blaming him (and his concerned expression) gave a bitter tang to the beer and I slammed it down on the table, glaring at my friend.

''What?!'' If only he'd stop staring at me, stop making me feel like the worthless, ungrateful piece of shit I was for disappointing him.

''You've skipped some of the correspondence lessons.'' He slid the papers over to my side of the table. Plans for the future seemed laughable with the threat of Oliver hanging over me. One day, I knew, he'd ask for more than I was giving him and I'd either give it, thereby becoming my own worst nightmare; or kill him, thereby sending myself to prison for life. Either way, doing my homework was useless. Spencer's face tightened at my disinterested shrug. ''I've also heard some things about your recent clients.'' I flinched at the term and swallowed more beer, pretending I didn't see him scowl when I did. ''They say you're hostile, aggressive; almost violent with them. You've had several cancellations because of it.'' Again I shrugged, uncaring at their reaction to my attempts to reaffirm my masculinity. Weren't they paying for a 'bad boy' fantasy? Didn't they like it a little rough, a little dangerous? They'd certainly **come **hard enough, so what were they griping about? ''Is rape fantasy really where you want to go, Ry…..'' I interrupted his question, throwing the beer bottle against the far wall as I surged to my feet.

''Are you my partner or my pimp?!'' I shouted at him, wanting something to make me feel better. If I couldn't find it here, and couldn't find it with my customers, that left only one place to try and locate solace, and The Body Shop was gay, tonight; which narrowed my options back down to zero.

I really hated not having options, not having a choice.

''I'm your _friend_, Ryan.'' He wanted to understand, I saw, wanted to help me with whatever I was struggling over. I almost told him, but stopped myself just in time. He'd go to jail, he'd absolutely prefer going to jail to this, and I couldn't repay him by letting that happen. He'd never make it out of there alive or sane and I wasn't going to let him sacrifice himself to spare me a little mental anguish. I just had to make the shift, is all. Somehow, I had to adjust to this new aspect of my existence, much as it made me (however briefly) end said existence.

''I'm going out.'' I grabbed my jacket, patting the pockets to make sure I had my keys and my wallet. Maybe I could find a pool table, soothe my shattered nerves in the structure of the game. Maybe I could get into a fight, find a girl who wasn't so fucking picky about her sex. A tap confirmed the presence of condoms in my back pocket. I had everything I needed except peace of mind, and if I could get drunk enough to forget, maybe I could have that, too. ''Don't wait up.''

''Ryan.'' I tensed at his grip on my shoulder, the first time I'd ever reacted like that with Spencer. The hurt registered deep in his eyes, making me feel like a first-class shit as he lifted his hand away. ''Happy Birthday.'' My gaze darted to the calendar hanging by the door, surprised. Sure enough, the date was circled with a red marker and a little 'R'. Now I felt even worse for my behavior. ''There's no party or anything, just a little something.'' He held out a package and I took it almost reverently.

A birthday present. An actual, goddamn birthday present.

It was even wrapped.

My hands shook as I opened it, revealing the leather-bound sketchbook, with the little sleeve for a pencil and the adjustable grip to hold (or replace) the pad of paper. Thoughts of Oliver vanished as I smoothed the brown leather under my fingers, smiling at the tiny, calligraphied 'R' in the bottom right corner. Only Spencer knew about my habit of doodling floor plans and building designs on scraps of paper, only he would think to buy me something to encourage that stupid little past time.

''Maybe this'll keep the phone company from calling us about the bill next month.'' I flushed at his statement, remembering how I'd penciled in a better lay out for our apartment on the back of the statement we'd sent in with the check. We'd gotten a very confused call from our phone service and he'd teased me about it for days.

I couldn't believe I'd forgotten that.

He didn't say another word as I shrugged out of my jacket and sat back down to do my homework. Enough was enough, I decided. Just because Oliver had taken control over part of my life was no reason to give him all of it. It was time to stop letting him get to me and start acting like the professional I was. Peace of mind would come if I refused to let him effect me in any way but the ingrained, automatic physical response I was paying him off with. I sipped at the coffee Spencer had plunked in front of me and shook my head when he held up the beer before tossing it out. After I was done with this, I was going to call and apologize to my customers; offer them a freebee to make it up to them, they'd certainly love that. If they didn't, that was certainly their choice.

Their **option.**

--xxx—

''I think maybe you're starting to enjoy this; our time together.'' Oliver smiled at me, smoothing his hair down from where I'd messed it up when I grabbed it.

It'd been different, this time, my third 'payoff' had been where I'd taken control of things; refusing to play the victim to his manipulations. This time, I'd pulled off my clothes quick and easy, figuring that the sooner I got naked, the sooner it'd be over. This time, I'd gotten hard right out of the gate (thinking of supple little 'Susie', last night's customer and yoga practitioner) and **this** time, I'd grabbed his head and fucked his mouth (heedless of the choking hazard) until I came, ending our session in ten minutes of automic responses rather than the usual excruciating half hour of soul-searching struggle. It was the best orgasm I'd had from these activities, but still rated lower than a good session of private masturbating, not even registering on my personal scale of pleasure.

I wasn't gonna tell **him** that, though, let him think he was getting to me, making me 'gay.'.

No, wait, I didn't want him to think that. He wasn't a customer, he was a blackmailer. If he thought I was enjoying this, he'd ask for something else, something I maybe wouldn't be able to find a mental trick to deal with.

''Only in your pathetic dreams.'' I informed him coldly, tucking my shirt into my jeans. I still wanted a scalding hot shower to wash away the feel of him, but it could wait until I got home. I was in back in control of things and it felt great, despite the bile tickling the back of my throat. Guess I wasn't completely okay with it, I still threw up for nearly an hour before hand. Probably afterwards, too, with the way my stomach was cramping. I suppose my body was trying to tell me I wasn't gay, which I already knew, actually. Nice to have every part of me in agreement, though.

''You don't have to be so mean.'' He pouted, crossing his arms and facing me with a pursed lip, like he thought I cared about hurting his feelings. I laughed at him with dark humor, snorting at his startled expression.

''You're **blackmailing** me, remember? Don't **ever** think I wouldn't stop this shit the second I managed a way around that little 'keepsake' of yours.''

''Maybe I'll just take a few pictures, then. Maybe I already have.'' I snorted in disbelief this time, settling into my jacket.

''People have photo shop now, moron, no one'd buy it.'' He dropped his arms from his sulky posture, reaching for his sports jacket. I snatched his hand, squeezing his fingers in my fist until he hissed in pain. ''If you ever take a single picture, I'll break something you need. Like fingers.'' I tightened my grip for a split second before releasing him, knowing he'd feel the seriousness of my threat in the throb of his fingers for the next few days. I tossed my jacket over my shoulder and walked out. ''See you in two weeks.''

--xxx—

''Ben.'' Devon was motioning me over with a severe expression.

''His master's voice.'' Michael teased me, slapping me on the back as I headed over to the director.

I was glad that Michael and the others had forgiven me for the way I'd been acting, back before I figured out how to deal with my personal crises of sexuality. I'd snapped at them, called them all sorts of names, even punched them when they got 'too close'. My dancing had suffered, too; hitches appeared in my routine every time I saw a guy in the audience, or if I knew the other male performers were watching. After regaining control last week, I'd apologized profusely, referring to a 'perception shift' without going into too many details. Everyone chalked it up to my** finally** falling prey to 'stage fright' and we went back to our usual routine of joking around between sets. Devon had said my dancing was better than ever (the tips were certainly getting larger), so what could he be looking at me like **that **for? He pointed out into the club and I gasped, stunned.

It was Trey.

He looked like road kill, worse than he had the night of the client's death. He was holding his hands in front of his face, indicating a mask, making it pretty obvious he was looking for me. Shit, **now** he chooses to have that conversation I'd been waiting for? His timing really blew, sometimes. He'd been distant all this week, starting sentences he didn't finish and spending tons of time driving somewhere. He wasn't meeting customers, I knew that from his overflowing voice mail and the messages that were piling up on our machine. He'd even left his cell behind, once or twice. So if he wasn't working, and he wasn't at home………I'd asked him about it and he'd asked me for time, which I willingly gave him. There was no one I could trust more, after all; I was just starting to be afraid it was cancer or AIDS or something.

''It's my brother, Trey.'' There was a concentrated rush as dancers pressed in around me, peeking out to get a look at my rarely mentioned 'sibling'.

''He's cute.'' Michael commented, turning away to raise hopeful eyebrows at me. I shook my head and he shrugged, going back to his preparations.

''He doesn't look anything like you.'' One of the other guys accused, purely out of jealousy, I knew. He was a recent hire and resented the hell out of the way everyone else treated me.

''Different mothers.'' I told him, which was absolutely true, just not in the way he thought. I gave Devon a significant look and he passed orders along to the bouncers, admitting Trey backstage for the first time. He walked right over and grabbed my arm making everyone nearby tense.

''Grab your stuff, we have to go.'' He was scared, white was showing around eyes dilated with panic. Shit. Only one thing could make him react like this and I shivered at the chills dancing along my spine. Good thing I hadn't gone on yet, I was still 'dressed' and my outfit was thankfully one that could pass for street clothes.

''I need my shoes.'' Everything else I could leave, but I needed more than my sandals if I was going outside the club.

''Problems?'' That was Devon, always looking out for me. He'd seen the grip Trey had on my arm, the fear on my face, and came over to 'deal'. I'd seen guys the director had 'dealt' before, it wasn't anything I wanted to have happen to Trey.

''Max.'' I said, knowing that the man was plugged in enough to realize everything in that one word. He wasn't a moron, he'd known what he was hiring when I started handing out my business cards. He proved that by turning immediately to my partner and piercing him with a solemn look.

''How long have you got?''

''Until sunrise.'' Shit, shit, double shit. That was only about five hours away, less if Max got impatient. Could we make a plan and execute it in five hours? We were screwed; so very, very screwed.

''Need anything?'' Trey blinked at the sincere offer, giving me a doubtful look. I nodded and he turned back to the director with more hope than he'd had when he came in. Okay, maybe he'd already had a plan in mind when he'd come in. Maybe it was too early to write us off as dead.

Maybe we actually stood better than a snow cone's chance in hell.

''A truck. We're leaving town, for good.'' My sneakers arrived and I shoved my feet into them as Devon went off to get us a truck.

''Will leaving town help any?"' I asked, wondering how well-thought out this plan was, or if we were just rabbiting in a structured fashion. Something else occurred to me and I blinked, putting it together. ''Does this have anything to do with your mysterious errands?''

''Yes.'' I waited, but that was apparently all he was willing to say in front of strangers. Smart, all it would take is one guy opening his mouth in the wrong place at the wrong time and it'd be like we left a neon trail for Max to follow.

Jack traded us his Ford F150 for our Lexus, even helped us pack everything we were taking (including my bike) in the back. The only piece of furniture we loaded up was Trey's leather rocking chair with the massage and heat functions built in. His 'Jacuzzi chair' he called it. We dumped the cells, crushing them under our feet, and mailed out cancelation slips to all services without leaving a forwarding address. Jack agreed to wipe down the apartment and distribute the food to the local soup kitchen. We left him handing bills to our landlord, changing direction so many times I was actually surprised when Spencer pulled out onto the freeway. He checked the mirror compulsively for another thirty minutes until it was obvious we weren't being followed.

''Gonna tell me where we're going?'' Moving didn't bother me, I knew we could start again, fresh, anywhere we wanted. So long as there was a country club full of rich, neglected women (and a co-ed strip club) we'd be fine.

''Well, 'little brother', I think you're gonna like it.'' For the first time since his client had od'd on him, I saw him relax completely and smile the old smile of sincere confidence. I smiled back, relaxing too. No way he'd smile like that if Max was still a threat. ''It's in Orange County.''

''Orange County.'' Plenty fancy, about the level of Beverly Hills, just with more beachfront property.

''Yep.'' He was cheerful, too, and I knew he was planning a major surprise. I just hoped I liked it as much as he seemed to. ''Little place called Newport.''

--xxx—

- roll credits –

--xxx—

**A/N: **Yeah, who didn't see **that** one coming? Okay, gonna go work on Hills and be nice to Ry to make up for all I did to him in this story. 


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